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Authors: Julian Sedgwick

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BOOK: The Black Dragon
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After dinner he lifts the blind on the porthole and stares out into the dark. Laura is rattling away on her laptop, humming like she does when working a story. Dad would have been able to read so much in her eyes from micro-muscles you can't voluntarily control, which betray memory, emotion. Or by the exact way she's set her shoulders. Danny knows how it's done in theory, but hasn't enough experience to be sure of anything.
I'll just have to wait and see
, he thinks.

As the engines pulse, he watches ice crystals form in the glazing of the window and slowly he drifts into a reverie: not quite awake, not quite asleep, eyes half closing. He slips in time, memories playing again in vivid color. When his guard is down they come back, unbidden, in bits and pieces . . .

Now, in his mind's eye, he's there. He's at the Mysterium again. Kaleidoscopic images well up into consciousness: he sees the Aerialisques tumbling on their red silk ropes from high in the hemisphere, finishing their burlesque-like act to a chorus of wolf whistles, applause, cheering.

Half asleep, he drifts with the memory and sees the bearded electric guitarist, the pretty tattooed cellist, climb to their places high in the rigging and start the hypnotic riffs that signal Dad's great new escapology routine. The amplified music throbs around the arena.

And there's Mum watching from the performers' entrance, peeking between the curtains, her bright- green eyes fixed on Dad as he is fastened into the straitjacket and chains. She doesn't normally watch, but this is a first performance. She can't help herself. Maybe more tension in her face than normal.

And there, bright in the spotlight, Danny sees the water torture cell waiting for its prisoner. Every detail clear, as if he is still standing in front of it. A reinvention of Houdini's famous escape: a glass tank—full to the brim with water—the size of a small elevator. Its wooden frame is freshly painted red, the water inside reflecting the strobing lights, a projected image of Houdini's own garish publicity poster.

And then Dad's feet are fastened into the ugly-looking stocks and hoisted up above his head by the winch. He dangles upside down at the end of the chain, smiling out over the expectant faces of the crowd, spotlight bright on his powerful figure, over the head of Zamora, who waits, axe poised “just in case” for dramatic effect. But there will be no need to use it. Nothing ever goes wrong for Dad.

The straitjacket and padlocks confine his arms tightly to his side as he hovers for a moment in the air. And then down he goes,
kerploof
, head first into the water . . .

Bubbles stream from his mouth and nose as he twists and writhes in the tank. Time runs through the animated hourglass now projected on the tank. The music picks up, insistent. Dad's hair waves like seaweed in the churning water, his face a mixture of concentration and effort. Two minutes left to free himself, or he will drown.

The tank is visibly shaking as he puts all of his effort into the escape, body flexing and straightening as he usually does to start to loosen the bonds. The water laps over the top, running down the glass, distorting his figure.

But something's wrong: it's all taking far too long. He's normally out of the first of the cuffs already. Close up, his father's face shows anxiety. Fear even . . . The stopwatch is ticking away in Danny's hand.
Come on, Dad. Come on
—

“Hey, Danny!”

Laura taps him on the shoulder, snapping him back to the present, the engine roar. “If you're going to sleep, then use a cushion and a blanket and make the best of it.”

He turns to look at her drowsily. Something has been prompted by the waking dream.

“Aunt Laura. Did you ever see the Water Torture Escape? In rehearsal, I mean?”

“I was always too busy.” She sighs.

“There's something weird about it. I mean, weird how it went wrong. And then the fire so soon after—”

“Danny, we've been over that—”

“You said we could see about looking into it again.”

“The police did a thorough job. Death by accidental causes.”

“But Mum and Dad were always so careful—”


You
saw the report. I'm sure it was kosher. Accidents happen.”

There it is again. No one ever wanted to listen, and when he persisted last year, a psychologist patiently explained that the doubts were all to do with shock—the difficulty in believing that someone was gone. That something as stupid as a cooking fire could take the lives of people who looked death in the face and cheated it on a daily basis.

“It doesn't make sense. Two things going so wrong in a week.”

Laura sighs. “Life just sometimes has a habit of wrong-footing us, Daniel. God only knows that's happened to me enough. We don't know what's coming round the corner. Good or bad.”

“But Dad always said—”

“Your dad didn't know everything, Danny. He liked to think he did. I'm sorry, but we're all of us groping in the dark sometimes.”

He nods, but isn't convinced. One failed escape in the week, maybe. But not two. It doesn't feel right—never has.

He stares out into the night again. Nothing to be seen of the unknown lands slipping by far below.

“Get some sleep now, Danny.”

But when he does eventually drift off, his dreams are dark and disturbed. Full of the rush and chaos of water closing over his head.

5

HOW NOT TO JUDGE BY APPEARANCES

Sunlight streams through the windows of the sprawling Hong Kong International Airport. Lushly wooded hills roll in the distance, their unfamiliar shapes pricking Danny's excitement, the misgivings of the night before replaced by a surge of anticipation at finally seeing Hong Kong. And being reunited with Zamora.

There's a thick scrum at the arrivals gate, but it's not exactly hard to spot the dwarf. A good deal shorter than the rest, he nevertheless stands out at the barrier, raised up on tiptoe, his trademark bowler hat perched at a jaunty angle. One hand reaches up to smooth his moustache. Then he spots Danny and a broad smile breaks across his face as he bustles forward to greet them, arms working busily, head held high.

“There you are, there you are, Mister Danny. Miss Laura!” He gives Danny a powerful hug, lifting him clean off the ground. “You've blooming well overtaken me. I knew it. Oh well. Had to happen.”

“It's been so long—” Danny says, recovering from Zamora's grip. He wants to say more but can't find the words.

“No problem for us, Mister Danny. No
problema
! Old friends can cope with time, you know. We're here now. That's all that matters.” He play-punches his young friend on the shoulder.

“How's the hotel?” Laura says.

“Bit too posh. Made me put a shirt over my lovely pictures.” Zamora flexes his biceps, and the mermaids and tigers inked there jump and twist. “But otherwise like you asked. Anonymous. Central.”

“Let's get moving then, shall we, boys?” Laura says.

Zamora takes the luggage cart and starts to shove it through the crowds, throwing words back over his shoulder. “We'll have a good time, eh, Mister Danny? Catch up, talk about the old days . . . EAT, for heaven's sake. You know what they say—food is an important part of a balanced diet! How's the magic?”

Danny smiles. “I'll show you the jumping man. I've almost got it.” The long year and a half since that snowy Berlin day feels like it's melting into nothing.

“Never show a trick till you're absolutely sure of it,” Zamora says. “Hey! Tell me I've grown!”

It's an old joke. “You've grown, Major.”

“Four foot four! Not bad for an achondroplastic, no? Has Laura been telling you about the mess she's—”

“Found a driver yet?” Laura cuts quickly across him, “I need to hit the ground running.”

Danny spots that easily enough. Somewhere Laura didn't want to go.

“What mess?”

“Oh,” Laura says, “just too much to do and not enough time. As usual. How about this driver?”

Zamora changes tack smoothly. “Oh yes. Nice man. He's here somewhere.” He lifts himself on the trolley handles, peering over the crowds. “There he is. Mr. Kwan!”

A short, rotund man—not much taller than the major himself—steps forward and takes hold of a case.

“Pleased to meet you,” he says, nodding at all three, squinting through thick round glasses. He reminds Danny of the barn owl that used to greet visitors at the Mysterium's entrance. It always looked confused to find itself there—and took the first opportunity it got to escape into a dark Spanish night. That had pleased Danny, and the resemblance makes him warm to Mr. Kwan.

“This way, please,” the taxi driver says, leading them through the revolving doors. It feels to Danny as if they've walked into a solid wall of muggy air, and hot sun slaps him on the back of the neck. The change of atmosphere, from gray lifeless Ballstone to the heat of this morning—Cantonese sing-songing all around them—is stirring something deep inside. Genetic memory maybe? He opens up his senses, trying to take it all in.

Mr. Kwan's red and white taxi is waiting for them, sunlight bouncing off dented bodywork. An advertisement for teeth whitening is plastered to the driver's door. It looks as though someone's taken a sledgehammer repeatedly to that side of the car, and Laura raises an eyebrow as Mr. Kwan starts banging cases into the boot.

“Don't judge by appearances,” Zamora whispers. “Your brother always told me that, Miss Laura.”

“As long as he can actually drive the thing.”

“Remember what Shakespeare said, Miss Laura. ‘All that glitters is not gold.' And vice versa. Mr. Kwan's a good one. Picked him third off the rank, just like you said.”

“Point taken.”

“And don't I know what it is to be misjudged,” Zamora mutters.

Danny is looking around, savoring the heat, watching travelers pulse in and out of the terminal building.
I'm ready for this
, he thinks.
It feels right to be here
.

Close by, a tall man is lounging against a lamppost, mobile phone casually held to his ear. The morning sun falls on his spotless white linen suit. Although seemingly immersed in his call, he casts a quick glance at them.

Despite the throng of new images coming at him, it registers with Danny. There's nothing new about people staring at Zamora, of course. The major turns heads wherever he goes—and grumbles about it on a bad day—but there's something about the spark in the man's gaze that holds Danny's attention for a second or two. It just doesn't match the relaxed posture of the rest of his body. “Pay attention when things don't fit,” Dad always said. “Be interested in the details.”

But then the man claps his phone shut, shoves it in a pocket, and ambles off toward the terminal doors. As if he has all the time in the world.

“Come on,” Zamora says, clambering into the rear seat of Mr. Kwan's cab. “Your aunt's in a blooming hurry. As usual. And I'm hungry.”

Mr. Kwan revs the taxi and they pull away toward the expressway.

“Whole lot better arriving here than the old airport,” Zamora says. “Safer too!”

Danny looks back at the terminal building—and sees the man in the suit dart back across the tarmac, summoning the next taxi on the rank with a flick of his fingers. He moves with precision, ducking his long, thin head as he jumps into the backseat—glancing in their direction as he goes.

“I'll tell you, it was scary in a crosswind,” the dwarf continues. “Planes sliding sideways . . .”

But Danny's not listening. His curiosity has been roused by the actions of the white-suited man, and he looks around again, trying to pick out the other taxi. There it is. Close behind.

It follows them across a couple of intersections and then down the ramp onto the North Lantau Highway. Most taxis from the airport would be going this way, of course. Then again, the man has no baggage, and he was in a hurry to grab a taxi as soon as they left the rank. A bit odd.

Mr. Kwan wipes his forehead with a red handkerchief, urging the car onwards. They climb an elegant suspension bridge, cables webbed against the sky. Zamora taps Danny on the shoulder, dragging his attention from the following cab.

“Take a look, Danny.”

All of Hong Kong and its harbor is spread out before them in one breathtaking sweep. Boats plow snow-white furrows on the water. Green hills rise and fall and rise again, cradling the bay. Everywhere the thrust of skyscrapers, towers of glass and steel vertical at the water's edge, catching the light.

“One of the most densely populated places on Earth,” Laura says. “That's why everyone builds upward. Up and up.”

“And me with my vertigo,” says Zamora, grimacing. “
Ay caramba!

The expressway snakes through flyovers and sprawling intersections. Danny's eyes drinking in the approaching city. Signs flashing by in a clutter of Chinese characters, coded messages that feel as though they should be decipherable, but are beyond reach.

“It's strange to think of Mum growing up here,” Danny says, watching the city grow around them, the towering blocks swallowing them up.

“How do you mean, Danny boy?” Laura asks.

“I mean, it's like there's a whole life she had here that I don't really know.”

“Perhaps you'll get a better feel for it . . .”

Danny smiles. “I'm glad I've come.”

“Good. I'm sure it was the right thing to do.”

Mr. Kwan pilots them surely enough through the hustling traffic and then down a ramp into the cross-harbor tunnel to Hong Kong Island itself.

Danny turns around to squint through the rear window.
Is that taxi still following us?
he wonders. No fewer than twenty other virtually identical red and white cabs crowd behind them. No chance of picking it out. Maybe he was mistaken anyway.

BOOK: The Black Dragon
5.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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