Lee Weeks - Kiss and Die

‘He’s on the next landing,’ Hafiz shouted. This was Block C, floor twelve. Doors banged shut as the familiar whistles went up and down the landing. It was replica bag land, knock-off watches and fake designer goods, full of small factories, guesthouses, apartments.

‘Corner him,’ came a reply.

They chased their victim down the corridor. Their voices bounced off the concrete walls, their feet thundered and echoed up the piss-ridden stairwell and down the dark landings. The sickly hue of strip lighting threw their shadows up the graffiti on the walls.

‘Don’t let him get away,’ a girl shouted back.

The African ran till his heart was bursting. He ran blindly, not able to stop and listen; he heard the cries from every direction. He knew they were coming for him. Their feet thundered, their voices ripped the walls apart. He saw them at the other side of the stairwell door. He had nowhere left to run. Beside him was the shaft that dropped all the way to the bottom of the Mansions. He went to climb in, it was dark, filthy. Cables and sewage pipes clung to its walls but there was nothing for him to hang on to. He turned to face them. They were kids, wild eyed, panting from their chase. They held knives in their hands. He held his hands up for peace, surrender, compassion. One of them lunged forward and cut his forearm down to the bone. He cried out in pain as he withdrew his arm, cradled it, looked frantically around for an escape route. They closed in a circle around him. They were behind him now, all around.

‘Come on kids…please. That’s enough now. Let me go. I am sorry for whatever…please.’ Blood poured from his wounds; it dripped onto the stone floor.

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. They attacked him from all sides, slashing with a frenzy. Hafiz stamped on his dying body. The African’s eyes popped from his skull and his teeth clattered on the concrete floor.

Shrimp brought Rajini’s parents back from the morgue and left them at the entrance to the Mansions. He went to the middle of the ground floor where there was a plan of the Mansions’ layout. He took the stairs up to the next landing. The Africans stopped what they were doing to watch him pass. They followed him down corridors overcrowded with people, constantly moving. The smoke bit into his eyes. There was no ventilation in the narrow corridors. There was no natural light whatsoever. The wailing of an Indian woman singing was reaching a crescendo. There was not one part of China there.

He looked back to see if he was still being followed. Ahead of him the corridor had turned into a mini Lagos. The black men leant on walls, sat on the floor on rugs smoking. They filled the air with the boom of their deep voices. The air was thick, pungent with cigarette smoke and cooking. Shrimp was approaching the end of the corridor, now he was the only non-African on that side of the landing. He stopped, turned and started back down the way he’d come. Five of the men blocked his way. Shrimp recognized the man from the lift. He looked at his feet. He was the one with the cool trainers. Shrimp smiled. He grinned back. He was brutally handsome: his features were hardened by scars. His eyes had a light of some inner mischief. The others weren’t smiling.

‘Excuse me. Do you know where I can buy some trainers like that?’

‘Come with us.’

Shrimp felt a large hand on his shoulder. He was steered inside one of the shops selling all sorts of goods: sweatshirts wrapped in cellophane hung down from every part of the ceiling, boxes of shoes were stacked to the roof. A crate was presented for Shrimp to sit on.

‘Your name?’

‘Li. My name is Li. They call me Shrimp. And yours?’

‘David. You want trainers? Here.’ David pulled down box after box and lifted the lids. He left them stacked beside Shrimp. He stood and watched Shrimp pretend to choose. Then he knelt down next to him, so close that Shrimp could make out every open pore, every scar on his face. ‘I saw you with your friend in the lift. You helped the Kenyan girl, she’s in trouble bad with smack. You a doctor?’

Shrimp shook his head.

‘A policeman?’

Shrimp looked at the others. They stood around the doorway. The corridor outside was full of dark faces watching him, not speaking, not moving. Gone was the laughter; they were listening intently. Shrimp kept his eyes glued on David. He reckoned anything that would happen would happen with him. The rest would take orders. If Shrimp was aiming to get out alive he had to be very fast on his feet. He had the advantage of being slight, slippery as well as athletic, but when he looked at the size of David’s bicep, snagged on the t-shirt, he was having doubts about his chances. He nodded.

‘So, what you doing here?’ asked David.

‘We had some reports of trouble. I wanted to take a look for myself.’

David wiped the sweat from his upper lip. Shrimp had never smelt the smell of stale sweat so pungent as it was in the small room. ‘We are used to the heat,’ said David, as if reading Shrimp’s mind, ‘but we are not used to the humidity. You guys don’t sweat much, do you?’

‘I’m sweating now,’ Shrimp smiled.

Mann looked at the card Victoria Chan had given him. The address was a building he knew on Peking Road, just a stone’s throw from the Leung Corporation. He looked at his watch. It was close to ten. He knew where she’d be right now, where all the smart set went. She’d be in the Oceans bar having post-dinner drinks. On Peking Road, top floor. He stepped out of the lift and into the arms of the hostesses waiting to meet and greet at the entrance. This bar was uber chic, always a little too dark. He turned right and up the small flight of steps into the main bar. It had 360° views and floor-to-ceiling sloped windows that gave the impression the diner was floating in the Hong Kong sky.

The bar was crowded with Chinese entertaining clients and wealthy lonely locals looking for company. A round of drinks had a minimum charge which would have bought a dinner for a family of four elsewhere. But that was the very reason people came. Hong Kong was all about showing you could afford it and this was the bar of the moment. Mann got a seat at one of the tables that overlooked the eating area on the mezzanine below. He ordered his usual – vodka on the rocks. The pretty young waitress brought it along with a selection of nuts.

He’d taken his first sip when he spied Victoria Chan in the private booths to his left. He’d guessed right. There she was, tucked in the VIP area: private booths with sofa-type seating and endless skyline. He only just recognized her – no twinset and pearls today – a Roland Mouret Galaxy dress and a pair of killer heels. Her loose hair curled like a fifties film star. He knew it was her because she knew it was him. She was looking for him too.

Mann got the uneasy feeling he was on a film set and being directed and she knew he would show up when he did. She was sitting with CK’s PA and what looked like five visiting businessmen: one Caucasian, two Asians, a Korean and a Japanese, obviously getting the special treatment and being taken out by the boss’s daughter.

An interesting mix, thought Mann. She obviously had international aspirations and had her beautifully manicured fingers in lots of international pies, and she wasn’t afraid of anything. A couple of Wo Shing Shing bodyguards sat with them. Mann recognized them from his visits to Leung Corporation: their bodyguards were as square as they were tall. The bodyguards zeroed in on Mann as he approached. They were on their feet before Mann had reached the table.

‘Sorry to interrupt. Urgent message for Ms Chan,’ Mann smiled at the businessmen. ‘You’ll have to excuse Ms Chan. I’ll bring her back.’ Mann eyeballed the bodyguard and smiled at Victoria. ‘Just a quick word.’