Lee Weeks - The Trophy Taker

The shop was crammed with all manner of cures and herbs, dried skins and animal parts. It was all kept in perfect order. That was in the days that his wife was alive. It was she who had structured the day-to-day running of the surgery. Under her supervision, Max had helped his father, dispensing the medicine, weighing out the various herbs, bagging them up according to prescription. He had started to train in acupuncture and showed an aptitude for it. His mother spent a lot of time nurturing Max’s abilities. Those were happy days in the Fong household – before his mother died suddenly. She was shopping for groceries when she was hit on the head by a piece of falling construction material being used to build one of the new tower blocks. The shock was too great for Father Fong. His world was shattered, and only the chore of looking after his twelve-year-old son and treating his patients kept him from ending his own life. The business would have gone to pieces, if it hadn’t been for the employees who took over as best they could, keeping things ticking over. One of them, a young woman by the name of Nancy, who had been in their employ since the age of fifteen, and who Mrs Fong had not only trained but had been particularly fond of, came to the fore and did a good job of running the show. She proved herself to be more than just adept at running things – she set her sights on marrying management. It didn’t take her long to work out the best line of approach, and in her attempt to seduce Father Fong she stuck to him tighter than a pressed flower and made it very obvious she was easily plucked.

Father Fong had panicked into marrying her – anyone was better than no one, and the boy needed a mother. But, once married, Nancy quickly grew discontented and let the business fall into decline. Then, as luck would have it, just as Father Fong’s patience was stretched to breaking point, she fell pregnant and became so tired that she had to sit in the upstairs lounge all day, feeding the canary and eating buns. In jubilation at her pregnancy, Father Fong forgave her laziness and bought her a dog, a small white toy Pekinese. All you could hear all day long was the tap tap of the ping-pong ball and the yap yap of little ‘Lucky’, as Nancy played with her beloved dog.

That summer, when Nancy was pregnant and Father Fong too busy to see her cruelty, she poured pints of vindictive venom on her stepson, whom she hated with as much perverse energy as she loved the dog. Max was beaten and starved and locked in the store cupboard, which had no artificial light, just a tiny barred window. It had been summer and the storms had come, lightning illuminating the room for seconds at a time. The heat made his clothes stick to his body, so that he had to pull them off and sit naked, squashed up in the suffocating darkness, panting, breathless with fear and excitement, screaming as the lightning blinded him and the rain came lashing down.

That summer he became a man. He touched his body in the darkness and felt its yearnings and longings. He became a man, caged in that cupboard, howling at the storm.

One day, in the last stage of Nancy’s pregnancy, while she was resting, Max found himself alone with Lucky. The dog sat watching him from its place on the leather-look sofa. Its pink tongue protruded as it panted in the heat. It kept its bulbous eyes on the bedroom door, patiently waiting for its mistress to wake. Max looked at the dog and gave in to an overwhelming desire to kill it. Taking Lucky by the throat, he shook and squeezed the little dog until its eyes bulged from its head and its body stopped running in midair. As Lucky collapsed, limp in his hands, Max jammed the ping-pong ball – Lucky’s favourite toy – into the back of its throat to make it look as if the ball had been the cause of the animal’s demise. Then, trembling, he ran to his bunk to hide and waited for Nancy to awaken and find her beloved dog. When she did, she screamed so loud that Max felt a spurt of hot pee shoot down his leg. The neighbours heard her screams and came down from the floors above to investigate; and Father Fong came rushing up from the surgery below to find the reason for her anguish. It was Father Fong who, after examining the dog, discovered the ping-pong ball. Max’s trick had worked. He was safe.

Nancy produced a son that evening. Her pelvis was too small and the large baby had to be pulled from her like a calf. Consequently, the baby’s head was misshapen and his look somewhat strange. Nancy didn’t care for the ugly baby at all – she was still mourning for her dog.

She finally left the Fong household for good when Man Po was one year old.

After she left, the surgery dwindled until it became just an occasional knock on the shutter to ask for this and that. Then Father Fong would pull down the dusty jars and rummage through old boxes and tins until he put together a prescription, but his heart wasn’t in it any more.

Now, the shutter outside their house no longer opened and closed; it was firmly shut. They continued to live in the two-bedroom apartment on the first floor. Old Father Fong slept in one room, while the brothers slept in bunks in the other. But Father Fong was mainly housebound now. Arthritis had crept into his joints and settled in the marrow, drying them up like abandoned riverbeds. His physical world had narrowed to just a few rooms, and every year saw him shrink a little more. His old slippered feet wore a path on the floor tiles as he shuffled painfully back and forth from kitchen to bedroom to sitting room, only stopping to make kissing noises to the bright yellow canary that twisted its head this way and that as it watched the old man from the confines of its bamboo cage. He spent his days preparing food for his sons and waiting for them to come home.

Man Po was fourteen years younger than Max, which made him nearing forty-six, but he would always look like a baby. He had a round face and large eyes and the hair on his head looked as if it had been hand-stitched like a doll’s. He dribbled from the lazy corner of his mouth. The things he enjoyed in life were simple. He loved his work – driving his lorry. And he especially loved butchering the pigs.

16

Club Mercedes was Hong Kong’s newest and most exclusive nightclub – for the moment. It occupied the top floor of the most prestigious shopping mall in Hong Kong, situated in the heart of Central District on Peddar Street in the Polaris Centre – a landmark in privileged shopping. On its seven floors were the pick of top European designers, jewellers by royal appointment and Rolex suppliers. Club Mercedes sat on top of all of it on the ‘lucky’ eighth floor.

The club was officially owned by a consortium of top businessmen. It was really owned by the Wo Shing Shing triad society and provided a useful way to launder money.

Over three hundred hostesses of various nationalities worked within its golden walls. Plenty of Gwaipohs for a murderer to choose from, Mann thought.

Mann decided to pay Lucy a visit that evening, while, at the same time, checking up on how many foreign girls were working there. He made his way past Dolce and Gabbana and Yves St Laurent and reached the foot of the conical glass elevator that would take him up to the top floor.

A stunning Asian beauty in a cheongsam greeted him as he stepped inside.

‘Welcome to Club Mercedes,’ she said, bowing and pressing the ascent button in one perfectly choreographed move.

Just as the doors were closing a Chinese woman stepped in. She stood at a discreet distance from Mann and kept her eyes floor-bound – except for the odd flutter of lashes and tilting of the head to see if Mann was still looking at her – which he was. Mid to late twenties, he reckoned. She had that ‘been around the block look’: black leather trousers, black polo neck and a gold chain snaking her collarbone. He surmised rightly that she was a hostess going to work.