Kam-tin's wife was in the act of hauling up a bucket of sea-water when she stiffened and she pointed excitedly at something in the water. A black bundle floating almost directly in the fishing junk's path.
Kam-tin detached a lantern from the stern and held it out so that a circle of light spread over the water as the object bumped the junk’s side. It appeared to be wrapped in sacking and was virtually submerged, but by its shape...
Kam-tin spün the wheel and then cut the engine. As the junk bobbed and rolled, Yat-man appeared from below and asked what was going on.
“Something in the water. Get a hook.”
“If there’s anything there, it’s none of our business. Best to leave it.”
Exasperation entered Kam-tin’s voice.
“I said hook it in!”
His wife, in floppy blue pants and blouse, dodged excitedly from one side of the junk to the other trying to catch a glimpse of the object. She thrust a pole into Yat-man’s hands. In surly fashion he groped over the side, hooked, missed, hooked again, and grunting with the effort hauled the bundle half out of the water.
“It’s heavy. Give me a hand.”
Kam-tin sprang to help him and between the two of them they levered the bundle aboard. The sacking lay dripping on the deck and they stood gazing at it warily for a few moments. Then Kam-tin produced a knife and leaned over the bundle, slashing at the ropes binding it. He pulled at the edge of the sacking and the object tumbled free from its wrappings on to the deck.
He stepped back with an oath as the others looked on in horror. It was the body of a man, but a man without a face...
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A few miles to the northeast, Dooley of the Morning Post was executing a tap dance on the counter of the Pink Heaven Bar in Hong Kong’s Wan Chai district. It was something he often did after he had digested his 10th beer and called his wife to tell her he was working late. Nobody took too much notice because Dooley was Australian and Australians were expected to be extroverts. Like the Kiwis, they had an international reputation to uphold. It was tough, but that was the penalty for being born beneath the Southern Cross.
McPhail, a thickset Canadian, peered up at the weaving figure and applauded vigorously.
“Fanfuckingtastic! Take ‘em off, Dooley, take ‘em off.”
At that instant one of Dooley’s flying feet smacked against McPhail’s glass of beer and the contents sprayed over the Canadian’s face.
“Jesus! You stupid bastard.”
Enraged, the Canadian flung himself across the bar and grabbed Dooley’s legs. The two of them rolled over the counter in a flurry of limbs and oaths, sending a number of other drinks spinning.
The Chinese manager looked on with his usual expression of alarm and resignation, calling desperately for order, while the other clients offered words of advice to the two combatants. After threshing around the counter for a while, they rolled off the edge and toppled to the floor where McPhail rapidly gained the upper hand.
“Christ!” said somebody, “I haven’t seen Mac so mad since they fired him off TV just because he was pissed during Meet The Press.”
McPhail had begun beating Dooley’s head against the floor, screaming: “I’ll kill you, you Aussie asshole!”
Dooley’s face was turning an unusually deep shade of purple. This prompted a lengthy discussion among the other customers about the damage that too much alcohol could do to one’s health. By the time his complexion had taken on a green tinge, however, there was general agreement that the bout had gone far enough and the two were dragged apart. Settled at opposite ends of the bar, they exchanged long-range insults while Jaws and Randy Nancy did their best to placate them. They had been working in the Pink Heaven so long that they were part of the furniture, chipped and creviced but still serviceable.
Nursing his beer amid the clamour of the bar, Clive Spillman wondered if Randy Nancy and Jaws ever slept, alone or accompanied. In the dim, indirect lighting of the Pink Heaven it was possible to imagine that they were still blessed with youth but closer inspection gave the same impression as stepping to edge of a bomb crater. The devastation was appalling. Heavy applications of make-up and their high cheekbones preserved an illusion of youthfulness but not all the powder and cream could hide the pits dug by decay.
Only the Poor Man’s Press Club would have employed them. The Pink Heaven had acquired this name among the journalists because of its popularity with the staff of the local media. They poured scorn on the Foreign Correspondents’ Club, located in up-market premises in Central District, claiming it had been taken over by the public relations boys, smooth-talking types with expense accounts and snappy suits.
“Full of poofs and phonies and Pommie bullshit,” Dooley had pronounced one memorable night when he led a walkout. Since then he had lent his particular air of sophistication to the Pink Heaven, which extended credit even to him and never threw one anyone out for dancing on the bar. That was one attraction you had to admit the Poor Man’s Press Club possessed, Clive Spillman reflected. No unnecessary stiffness, no protocol or stuffy regulations...