Silencer (16 page)

Another four stops and I’d get out at Prince Edward, not that far from the centre of things. I knew it well. It was home to Police Headquarters. I hadn’t bothered to venture any further on my weeks off. Go and see some ancient temple or museum? What was the point? I’d had my head up my arse for most of my life.

Some things don’t change: the brown tiles at Prince Edward MTR certainly hadn’t. I headed up to ground level and got mugged again by the heat.

Nothing much had changed behind the station either. My favourite food stall had treated itself to a bit of a face lift – it was more like a shop-front now, with a couple of tables, plastic chairs and a TV hanging off the wall – but at the counter it was very much business as usual. In the old days, I’d pointed and shouted at whatever had just been fried and got a plateful, most of which ended up down the front of my shirt. It was just like going to my kebab shop back home.

The specialities of the house had now been helpfully photographed for the benefit of foreigners and the illiterate – or maybe because the Chinese soap on the telly was playing at top volume and even the most switched-on customers could only communicate by sign language.

Two women were giving a lot of love and attention to a deep-fryer. The older one half turned and gave me the standard bollocking. I couldn’t hear a word of it, but the lip movements said it all.

I knew exactly what I wanted: battered fish balls and curry sauce. I pointed at the picture and she turned back to the fryer. I waited, not sure if she’d taken my order or not.

‘How much?’

‘Fourteen dollar.’ The younger one, maybe her daughter, held out her hand.

I gave her a twenty and admired the décor while I waited some more. No business enterprise in this part of the world would be complete without a lucky cat close by, right foreleg held high. This place had two: one on the counter and one on the shelf. They were battery-powered; their extended paws moved up and down as if they were saying hello. One of the very few bits of local knowledge I’d picked up when I was last there was that the cat wasn’t waving. It was using its talismanic powers to beckon you in and separate you from your money.

My change appeared on the counter alongside a steaming polystyrene container. I picked them both up, helped myself to a set of wooden chopsticks from a nearby glass, and wandered back onto Nathan Road, the main thoroughfare north from the tip of the peninsula. It didn’t actually reach the sea any more because of all the reclaimed land.

I went one block south and turned onto Prince Edward West. One corner of the junction was dominated by Police HQ – a sprawling complex of tower blocks, cells, vehicle compounds, old colonial buildings that were now dwarfed by everything that had been built since. Police stations here were more like small military camps: electric gates, high walls, barbed wire – they reminded me of my time in Northern Ireland.

The fish balls had cooled a little. I took a bite and started to laugh. I’d suddenly pictured myself being dragged out of the paddy-wagon after getting lifted at Ned Kelly’s.

I knew where I was going. Right after the JetCo ATM there was a road that had no name. A few metres up was the Mong Kok private clinic. I got the last fish ball down my neck before I turned the corner and binned the container with the sticks.

I hit the stainless-steel intercom button and waited. Wherever you are in the world, you can get everything you need as long as you have cash in the neck pouch – and Hong Kong led the charge. I wanted a pint of my own blood, and all it had taken was one phone call and a train ride.

The woman who’d shouted at me over the phone did so again on the intercom.

‘Blood donor. Seven hundred dollar. Blood donor.’ I looked up at the smoked-glass bubble on the wall and gave the CCTV cam my best smile.

The door buzzed open.

Immediately through the door there was a bare wooden staircase, lit by a single forty-watt bulb. My boots echoed as I climbed, and the temperature dropped with each step I took towards the rumble of an air-con.

It had been framed in the lower half of the only window of the first-floor room. The pane above it was as grimy as its surroundings. All I could see through it was the occasional flash of red neon. Maybe it was Miller Time; I couldn’t tell. To the right of it was a door the colour of a urine sample, to the left a receptionist behind a modern, IKEA-style desk, which looked like it belonged somewhere else. Against the wall beside her there was a highly varnished Oriental bench with dragons curling up each side. At least the light was stronger up there, and it smelt vaguely antiseptic.

The receptionist didn’t look remotely interested in who’d just come up the stairs. In front of her were a phone, a little Post-it station and the laptop she was engrossed in; that was it. She was a fraction the wrong side of forty, with severely trimmed jet-black hair. She was even skinnier than Diminetz’s whippet, and wore a baggy blue dress that was probably designed to be snug. She didn’t move a muscle; even the Dr Scholls resting on the cross bar remained absolutely motionless.

I moved closer and realized she was busy watching the same soap as the women at the food stall.

She glanced up reluctantly. As the soundtrack swelled and her eyes returned to the screen, she held out one freakishly large hand. ‘You have money? Seven hundred dollar.’ Her other hand pulled open a drawer robotically and unlocked a small metal cash box. Her arms were so skinny they had veins on the outside. Maybe they used her for needle training.

‘Shouldn’t I be paying
after
you give me the blood?’

She wasn’t impressed. She snapped the box shut and gave the kind of sigh that wouldn’t have been out of place on the PRC’s answer to
EastEnders
. She closed the drawer, smacked her money hand back onto the desktop, and finally managed to wrench herself away from the drama. ‘You wait here.’

She opened the urine-coloured door about two inches and slipped through.

I headed for the dragon bench and sat down with my bags at my feet, like I was waiting for a bus.

She reappeared a few minutes later without saying a word, tapped away at the keyboard, and I had to listen to some old people arguing and a young couple sounding concerned all over again.

Ten minutes later the door opened. A woman emerged with a dressing on her left arm, and a pair of black eyes that had been on the receiving end of a good punch or two. She muttered to herself in hushed tones as she slipped away down the stairs. I assumed there had been a domestic and she’d wanted to stay away from the general hospital. I’d come to the right place.

The door opened again.

‘Hello. I’m Kim.’

He was very old and very grey, in a shiny brown polyester suit and shirt, a tie that matched the paintwork and the kind of haircut that I’d only ever seen on Boris Johnson. His face creased into a smile that was almost bigger than he was. Everything seemed out of proportion in this place.

He held the door open, ready to usher me through. I got up, leaving my bags where they were. She could have my jeans if she wanted them; a hundred hot washes wouldn’t get them to fit.

Kim beckoned me with a liver-spotted hand. ‘Come, come …’

His surgery was straight out of a 1950s TV drama: two wooden chairs; an old varnished table laden with papers held in place by a brass Buddha, who looked every bit as cheerful as his owner; a blood-pressure cuff and monitor; a half-empty cup of tea.

Three cabinets lined one wall. A green canvas screen stood beside a well-worn PVC-covered bench spewing disintegrated foam from each corner. A paper-towel dispenser on the wall provided a much-needed layer of protection for anyone brave enough to sit on it. The window boasted the same air-con / grimy-glass combo as the one in the reception room.

‘Please, please sit down.’ Kim went and sat the other side of the table, smile still in place. He waited for me to settle. ‘You want me to take blood, yes?’

‘Yes, I want a unit.’ I swivelled my left hand and pulled a not-quite-sure face. ‘That’s about a pint, yes?’

He nodded and beamed. ‘Yes, yes. A pint. But—’

I cut in. There were things I needed to know. ‘The unit would stay in good condition? I need it for three or four days, maybe longer.’

‘Of course, no problem.’ He waved away my concern. ‘Why do you want it?’

I shoved a finger into my mouth. ‘My wisdom teeth. They’ve got to come out. If I need a transfusion, I want to use my own, no one else’s. I hate the dentist. HIV, hepatitis – they worry me.’

He nodded and agreed and clearly didn’t believe a word. But what the fuck? Either he wanted my seven hundred dollars or he didn’t.

He leaned forward. ‘Your name, sir?’

‘Harry. Harry Redknapp.’

He didn’t look like a football fan.

‘OK, Mr Redknapp …’ He stood up and went over to one of the cabinets. As the door swung open, I saw a mass of giving sets. He came back with one in its sterile wrapping and a clear blood bag. These things were pre-prepared with Heparin or other anti-coagulating agents, depending on where they originated. Anti-coagulant was crucial to stop the blood decomposing. Additives like CPD (citrate phosphate dextrose) were also needed to keep the blood cells alive – which was why it was pointless drawing blood yourself: it would turn to jelly, stink like fuck within two days, and die.

I sat with my sweatshirt sleeve rolled up, arm resting on the table as he fastened the cuff. He gave it a couple of pumps to swell a vein, then snapped on a pair of clear rubber gloves, which I was sure had more to do with his protection than mine.

I didn’t much care either way. We were in business.

The cannula slid in nice and easy. Kim bent so close to me I got quite intimate with his perfumed hair oil. It was never going to be able to control the haystack sitting on his head, but it smelt OK.

He released the pressure, slid out the needle, uncapped the cannula and taped down the plastic tube now connecting my vein to the bag. The equipment was sterile and the bag was filling. That was all I needed to know.

Kim was well pleased. ‘Very good, Mr Redknapp. Seven hundred dollar very cheap, yes?’

‘An absolute bargain.’ I decided now was the time to take advantage of his relentless good humour. ‘Kim, I need some help.’

‘You all right, Mr Redknapp? You not feeling well?’

‘No, no. I’m fine. But I have a friend who’s very sick. He needs a new kidney. He’s in America and they don’t seem to be able to find a match. Do you know anyone who could help?’

His smile vanished long before I finished the sentence. ‘No, Mr Redknapp.
No
. Very bad … very …
dangerous
.’ He gripped my arm. ‘Tell your friend, please … very, very dangerous.’

I’d fucked up. He stood up, leaving the bag only about a quarter full, and headed for the door. Maybe he thought I was police, or some kind of investigative journalist.

He poked his head around the corner and gobbed off a series
of instructions to the receptionist. He could have been ranting about me or asking for a weather forecast – I didn’t have a clue. I looked down. The bag was a third full. I wasn’t going anywhere fast.

He closed the door but didn’t sit down again: he busied himself binning the wrappings instead. He didn’t look like he was waiting for the heavies to arrive, but I glanced around the room for escape routes anyway. Old habits die hard. The bottom of the window was blocked by the air-con; the top by a solid pane. I eyed the Buddha. His base would fit neatly into my palm; the little fellow could head-butt someone, quickly and hard – in a Zen way, of course.

The door opened.

As Kim turned, I reached for my little brass mate. The robot appeared with a tray, a cast-iron teapot and two willow-pattern cups and saucers. She left as quickly as she’d arrived. Things were obviously hotting up on the soap front, or maybe she couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

Kim poured. ‘Milk, Mr Redknapp?’

I nodded, but wasn’t about to drink anything unless he did too.

‘Sugar?’ The smile was back in place. ‘Is very good. Good for your strength.’

We both ended up with milk and two sugars. I sipped the first cup of tea with condensed milk I’d had in years. By the time I’d finished it, the bag was full.

Kim started to disconnect me. He put a cotton-wool pad on the needle site, and encouraged me to press down on it. He bagged up the giving set and lobbed it into the bin with the mass of wrappers and packaging. He presented my still warm unit to me with a theatrical flourish.

‘Thank you, Kim. Thank you.’

‘No, thank
you
, Mr Redknapp.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Seven hundred dollar. Pay there, pay there.’

I pulled out my wallet and peeled off the HKD, which found their way into the money-box and back in the drawer before I could blink. As I turned to pick up my bag, the receptionist stood up, leaned towards me, and whispered, ‘Kitty porn.’

I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about.

‘Kitty porn? You want kitty porn?’

‘Kitty porn?’

She frowned. ‘You police?’

‘No, I’m not police.’

‘You want donor? You want donor, yes? Kitty get you donor. She know many donor. All price – man, woman, all price. Kitty got them all.’

She held up a Post-it on which she’d scrawled a whole lot of numbers.

‘Kitty Porn. Four thousand dollar. Four thousand dollar.’ She glanced uneasily at Kim’s door.

‘Four hundred American dollars, OK?’ I wanted that phone number, but I didn’t have four thousand Hong Kong on me.

She didn’t hesitate. ‘OK.’

I tucked the blood sachet into my bag and fished out a fistful of my escape package money. She was right behind me: her bonus wasn’t going anywhere.

The deal was done.

‘You not police? No police?’

If I was, it was a bit fucking late now, wasn’t it?

‘No. Not police.’

I checked the Post-it: an eight-digit number, starting with a five. That meant it was a mobile, registered on Hong Kong Island.

I legged it back down the stairs, aiming for the JetCo ATM. I was clean out of ready cash; in this place, you always needed more.