Brian Freemantle: The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin

The discussions with the assembled academics had been purposely shortened, to guarantee coverage from the journalists travelling in the liner down the east coast to the Panama Canal. The Pride of America stopped at Hawaii during its crossing of the Pacific and Lu chartered another plane to fly in journalists demanding access as the result of the concerted publicity during the voyage.

The arrival in Hong Kong was even more dramatic than the departure from New York. Lu had instructed his tanker and liner fleet to assemble and the Pride of America sailed along a five-mile avenue of welcoming, hooting vessels. All the time, it was preceded by two helicopters, between which was supported a massive pennant spelling out its new name, and on the final mile it had to negotiate fire boats which had introduced dye into their water tanks, creating Technicolor fountains of greeting.

It was mid-morning before the Chinese millionaire and son reached their house on the far side of the Peak. Immediately they entered the sunken lounge a servant brought in tea, but it was John Lu who solicitously poured it for his father, standing back and waiting for an indication of approval.

‘Very nice,’ said the older man.

John smiled gratefully, the attitude one of constant deference.

‘The publicity has been fantastic,’ he said. He spoke hopefully, anxious his father would agree with the opinion.

Lu nodded. ‘It’s a matter of organisation.’

‘Surely you didn’t expect this amount of coverage?’

‘No,’ admitted Lu. ‘Not even I had expected it to go so well.’

‘Let’s hope everything else is as successful,’ said the younger man.

His father frowned at the doubt. Without an audience, Lu rarely smiled.

‘Surely that’s been even more carefully organised?’

It was a reminder, not a question.

‘Yes,’ said John hurriedly. ‘Of course.’

‘Then we’ve nothing to worry about.’

‘I hope not.’

‘So do I,’ said Lu. ‘I hope that very much…’

John’s nervousness increased at the tone of his father’s voice.

‘You mustn’t forget,’ continued Lu, ‘that the whole thing is being done for you.’

‘I won’t forget,’ said the son. Or be allowed to, he knew.

Jenny Lin Lee had become quiet as the car moved up the winding roads through Hong Kong Heights, actually passing the Lu mansion, and she had realised their destination. By the time Robert Nelson parked outside the Repulse Bay Hotel, she was sitting upright in the passenger seat, staring directly ahead.

‘Not here.’

‘Why not?’

‘You know why not.’

‘Everyone comes here on Sunday.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So why shouldn’t we?’

‘Chinese whores aren’t welcome, that’s why.’

Nelson gripped the wheel, not looking at her.

‘You know I don’t like that word.’

‘Because it’s the correct one.’

‘Not any more.’

‘They don’t know that,’ she said, moving her head towards the open, bougainvillaea-hedged verandah and the restaurant beyond.

‘Who gives a damn what they know?’

‘I do.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t want to shame you in their eyes.’

He reached across for her hand, but she kept it rigidly against her knee. She was shaking, he realised.

‘I love you, Jenny,’ he said. ‘I know what you were and it doesn’t offend me. Doesn’t even interest me. Any more than what they think interests me.’

She gestured towards the hotel again, an angry movement. He wasn’t a very good liar, she decided.

‘The rules don’t allow it,’ she said.

‘What rules?’ he demanded, trying to curb the anger.

‘The rules by which the British expatriates live,’ she said.

He laughed, trying to relax her. She remained stiff in the seat beside him.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he pleaded.

‘I know them,’ she insisted. ‘Had them sweating over me at night and shoving past me in the street with their wives the following morning, contemptuous that I exist.’

‘Come on,’ he said, determinedly getting out of the vehicle.

He walked around to the passenger side, opening her door.

She stayed staring ahead.

‘Come on,’ he repeated.

She didn’t move.

‘Please,’ he said. He had begun to enunciate clearly, a man intending to show his words and judgment were unaffected by the mid-morning whisky back at the apartment.

She looked up at him, still unable to gauge the effect of drink upon him, but with a professional awareness of its dangers.

‘It’s a mistake,’ she warned him.

‘No it’s not,’ he said, reaching out for her.

Reluctantly she got out of the car. He took her arm, leading her to the verandah, gazing around defiantly for seats. There were two at the end, with a poor view of the sun-silvered bay and the township of Aberdeen beyond, but he hurried to them, ahead of another couple who emerged from inside the hotel.

The waiter was not slow in approaching them but Nelson began waving his hands, clapping them together for attention, and when the drinks were finally served Jenny spilled some of hers in the contagious nervousness and then used too much water trying to remove the stain. It meant there was a large damp patch on her skirt when they finally walked to the buffet line and then to the table he had reserved. Conscious of it, she walked awkwardly. At the table, she ate with her head bent over her plate, rarely looking up when he tried to speak to her.

‘They know,’ she said. ‘It’s like a smell to them.’

‘No one has even looked at us,’ he tried to reassure her.

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘They know. But to them I do not exist.’

The man whose job it had been to prevent Jenny Lin Lee setting up home with Robert Nelson and who had failed to frighten her was tied that night beneath the Red Star ferry that crosses the harbour from Kowloon to Hong Kong island in such a way that by straining upwards he could just keep his mouth free of the water, but not far enough for his shouts for help to be heard above the noise of the engine. It took several hours before he became completely exhausted and collapsed back into the water, to drown. And several days before the ropes slackened, releasing the body.

Some time later, already partially decomposed and attacked by fish, it surfaced against the sampans and junks that cling like seaweed to the island side of the harbour.

Knowing it not to be one of them, because sampan people never fall into the water, and with the gypsies’ suspicion of the official enquiries it would cause, they poled the corpse along from craft to craft, until it caught in the currents of the open water, near Kai Tak airport, and disappeared out to sea.

The man’s disappearance was never questioned. Nor wondered at. Nor reported, either.

Seven thousand miles and eight hours apart, there was another lunch that Sunday, as unsuccessful as that of Jenny Lin Lee and Robert Nelson.

Charlie Muffin drove carefully, habitually watchful for any car that remained too long behind. He was unused to the road, too, and was looking for the pub accorded three stars in the guide book. He hoped to Christ it was better than the one the previous week: cottage pie made from Saturday’s meat scraps, over-warm beer, a bill for?5 and indigestion until Wednesday. At least it had given him something to think about. He sighed, annoyed at the increasingly familiar self-pity. Last time it had almost killed him.

He glanced behind at the thought, checking again, and nearly missed what he was looking for. The Saxon Warrior lay back from the road, an instant antique of sculpted thatch over mock-Tudor beams. Inside he knew there would be mahoganied plastic, fruit machines in every bar and men wearing blazers and cravats solving Britain’s economic ills while they felt the milled edges of the coins in their pockets to decide if they could buy the next round of drinks.