woman would have a scruff like me? I’m not daft—or ever likely to be that rich. No, Steerforth. You addicts are all the same. You’re pillocks, round the twist. I’m off out of here first chance I get. You’ll stay forever, chasing your dream.
You’d pay all your savings if the Triad’d let you have her once, and it won’t be enough.
You’d have to have her twice. Then forever. You’ll die like a male bee in its flight.”
Another dream that died of size?
He was about to give me the ultimate rejoinder—I wish he had, seeing what happened—but a taxi drew up. He crossed to speak with the occupant, a young undertaker suit who gave Steerforth orders through the window. J.S. beckoned me, pointed to where the big white liner was berthed. I watched him. Amazing. Already he’d straightened, walking buoyantly, smiling. Our clients tonight must be big spenders. See what I mean about addicts? They all come to a bad end. I’ve heard that.
Typhoon Emma struck about one in the morning. I was sleepily saying good night to a pleasant brunette in the vast terminal building, wondering why on earth an attractive rich bird like her wanted to hire a bloke like me. I was pleased she did, though, because she wore a French-Egyptian-motif bangle, 1820 or so, and loved antique jewelry so much we’d done nothing but talk about it. Well, nearly nothing. I forget her name.
“I’m sorry you have to go, er, love,” I was saying. You have to be careful saying things like this, in case she decides to stay and you find yourself battling nightlong pitfalls when you’re at your weakest.
She paused, melting, so I quickly added, “But it’s best you do. I don’t want you to get in trouble.” That proved I was Good Deep Down. We said tender farewells by the exit.
The ship’s duty officer took her arm. “I’ll take the lady from here, sir,” he said. “The typhoon’s on us.” I drew breath to say I’d accompany her, but he whispered, “Piss off, you cheap hustler,” which narked me because I come pretty expensive. He triggered the door, grabbed the bird, and ran at a low crouch into the maddest weather I’d ever seen. The bird went with a squeal.
I peered through the glass at the liner. Its huge bulk was straining massively in its berth. I heard the wind huthering. In the arc lights I saw a tree— small, but entire—
whiz skittering along the wharf. And a rickshaw, simply bowling past. The world in a tumble drier. Hellfire, I thought, as water splashed up the liner’s side. The weather had worsened fast while we were snogging.
My journey to Steerforth’s flat was nightmarish. Even though I clung to walls, hugged doorways and ventilation grilles, I got blown off my feet several times, narrowly not smashing my head in. And the bloody gale began howling—really up-and-down bawling that peaked in a frightening screech. Buffeted and bruised, I saw a car whipped up and lobbed into the harbor. It took me an hour to reach Steerforth’s. Then the rain started, whooshing out of the maniacal sky and slamming me to my knees.
The door broke as I unlocked it, literally slammed back and fractured under the wind’s press. The single bulb swung crazily, imploded its glass over my head. I scrambled upstairs.
Steerforth gave me a warm greeting. “You fucking lunatic!” He shoved the apartment door to. “Have you no sense?”
The long mirror showed me myself: gaunt, soaked, clothes ripped, one shoe missing. A drowned rat. “I didn’t know it’d be like that.”
“Is the grumble safe?”
“Aye. She’s back on board.”
“Well, that’s something.” He eyed me, snickered. “You look worth ten cents an hour, Lovejoy. Here, have a celebration drink—you’ve survived your first typhoon.”
Hong Kong also survived it in a shambles of flood damage, deaths, landslides, broken roads. Buildings had collapsed in Kowloon, killing several people. A Greek freighter trying for the Lamma Channel was missing. Mudslides had engulfed cars near Peak Road, killing two horribly. Electricity was haywire. Water was cut off, nothing but gurgles from taps. Junks had vanished. The winds had roared through the harbor, picking up boats and vehicles like handfuls of gravel. Lighters were cast ashore on Stonecutters. Squatter villages had suffered heavily, shacks slithering down the mountainsides as the downpour gouged out new nullahs and undermined fragile foundations.
The mess gave me two days’ rest. For once my grumbling at Hong Kong’s heat, its commerce, its berserk criminality was silenced as I watched the colony fight back.
It was brilliant, a superb display of organization. Incredibly, everybody wore the same jaunty grins, calling the same Cantonese hilarities. The phone service was restored almost immediately. Queues formed at water standpipes. I too went and stood in line, patiently moving my two gallon cans until I reached the taps. I was so proud, puffing up the stairs hardly spilling a drop. Steerforth galled me, using too much water shaving.
The selfish swine even washed his shoes free of mud, and was too drunk that first day to take a turn in the water queue.
Mud was everywhere. The Post came out with photos of horrendous damage: trees washed down from hills blocking roads, people being dug from rubble. In it all, as the wind and rain lessened, the emergency teams were magnificent. Casualties were rescued from unbelievable plights, buildings were shored, roads cleared, pipelines mended, services miraculously resumed. It was a feat of magic such as I’d never seen.
And throughout Hong Kong chattered, laughed—and kept trade going. Like, in spite of the crisis we each had a couple of clients at nearby hotels, plus one surreptitious effort on a liner.
“Well, Lovejoy,” Steerforth said when all was order, days later. “How d’you think they did?”
“Superlative.” We were on the tiny balcony looking at the world. “Hong Kong’s answered a problem.”
An hour later I phoned Surton and broke the bad news that my firm’s junk had sunk in the Pearl River.
“Yes, the one bringing the few original autograph documents we had of Song Ping—
gone,” I confirmed mournfully into his appalled silence, sighing my most grievous sigh.
“A catastrophe. I’m afraid the problem’s insuperable.”
We ended the conversation differently, he with genuine sorrow, me with a brokenhearted sob and a private
