All Blood is Red Read online

  He left Andy at the door and grabbed a bottle of beer in the staff room. There were only about sixty people in the whole place, and it looked empty until it had at least two hundred. The heavy bass shook the walls as he downed his Budweiser. Mickey knew how to make money, but he didn’t know shit about beer. Maybe he could ask Mickey for a loan, to get the Brothers Wang off his back? Not likely. Mickey was a generous boss, but not that generous.

  Don lit a cigarette and joined Andy on the door. Nothing much happening, just a few early arrivers. They chatted casually, letting the people go by, smoking and checking out girls. The average age couldn’t have been over twenty-two, and the Hong Kong weather meant there was no let up in skimpy clothing all the way through the winter. That was another bonus about living out here, he supposed, but if things got too hot with the Brothers he could always just shoot back to London. There was always an out.

  After an hour or so the line started building up and they took turns: one on the outside letting people through, eight at a time, and one by the inner door to make sure they paid. Then Frankie and David turned up, both heavy young guys who went inside to watch the bar as the place started to fill. They were on the second shift, which meant they had to stay until the place was cleaned up and locked tight, while Andy and Don could go home a little earlier. The late shift was a bitch. You didn’t get to bed until after eight on a busy weekend. Tonight was a Thursday so it shouldn’t be too bad, but they would still get a couple of thousand through the door if it got busy, and that many people make quite a fucking mess.

  By one o’clock the place was heaving, and the line was still thirty people long. The steady, unchanging thump of bass came through the wide doorway as Don stuck his arm out again to stop the flow of people into the club. It would do his head in if he had to stay inside all night. He didn’t know why people paid for it, but half of them were off their heads already he supposed. Andy came out and stood next to Don, taking a cigarette from his pocket.

  “Pretty fucking busy for a Thursday?” Even outside, Don had to call loudly over the music.

  “It’s the weather,” Andy shouted. “Too hot to dance in the summer. We’re coming into prime season.”

  Great, so it was going to get busier. Last year, Don had been at one of Mickey’s smaller clubs downtown. That place was always heaving, but only held a few hundred at most. He’d been at HEAVEN for about four months, through the summer, and this was the busiest he’d seen it yet on a Thursday. He let his arm down and allowed another group of people to pass. Just as Andy was grinding out his butt beneath his boot heel, another red taxi drew up nearby. Don saw Jonny climb out from the back seat, followed by Michael, and Jeannie from the front. He indicated for Andy to take the line, and went up to them.

  Jeannie shouted, “Hi babe,” and threw her arms around him. She’d been drinking. She gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  “What are you guys doing here?”

  “Their idea,” Jonny answered. Don could’ve guessed that. It wasn’t exactly Jonny’s scene.

  “We wanted to go dancing,” said Jeannie. “And I thought I could see you at the same time.” Michael stood at the back of the group. He was younger than all of them, and looked five years younger than he was. A tall but skinny kid, with a mop of curly hair starting to sprout, he was from some God-awful farming backwater of the States.

  They had little in common, but Don knew why Jonny liked to hang out with him. He was another quiet drinker, though he liked to live it up sometimes. And he was ex-military. Military Intelligence, in fact. He’d done a tour of Iraq about the same time as Jonny was there, followed by some time in Korea. Now he was out and spending a few months relaxing in Hong Kong before he went back to the States.

  It was Michael who spoke now, “You said this was the biggest dance party in Hong Kong, I wanted to see it for myself.” He was still holding a half-drunk bottle of Becks. Strictly not allowed inside, but rules don’t count for friends and family. Don ushered the three of them straight in. Jeannie gave him another kiss, Jonny shrugged, and they disappeared into the flashing lights.

  By two the queue had disappeared. Most people would be leaving between by four, hopefully. Don went inside and saw Jonny sat alone at the bar, sipping a short drink. He pulled up a tall bar stool next to him and watched the crowds heaving up and down loosely in time with each other as the music boomed over their heads.

  Jonny was out of his element. Had to be the oldest person in the club except Jeannie, and his scruffy look clashed with the trendy students and young professionals, all health and vigour and future. Some of them would be at work first thing in the morning, tired or hung over but talking about last night and what they were doing this weekend. Next to this lot, Jonny just looked old and shabby.

  “Having fun?” Don shouted at him over the bass. Jonny shrugged and sipped his whisky. As long as he had a drink in his hand, he’d be fine. “Where are the others?”

  Jonny shouted something and pointed toward the DJ decks. Don tried to look over the crowds, but there were too many people in the way. A thousand heads bobbing up and down made it impossible to spot any individual, and the only lights were spinning and strobing all over the place. Then all the hands went up as the music built to a climax, and there was no hope. He supposed Jeannie was in there somewhere, dancing with Michael. She liked to have a bit of fun every now and then. Maybe they should go out this weekend or something?

  A series of shouts drew his attention away. On the edge of the dance floor, near the entrance, some young kid was on his back, struggling to stand like a turtle that’d been flipped. A student who’d had a few more than he could manage, Don guessed. A group of girls were trying to get out of the way, an expanding circle pushing at the people behind them. Don stood up and walked over to deal with it.

  By the time the DJ finished it was a little after four-thirty, this being a Thursday night. The club emptied quickly enough. He’d seen Jonny skip out early, but there was no sign of Jeannie or Michael. They must have left a long while ago, and been unable to find him in the crowd. He checked his phone but there was no message, so he drove home through the deserted streets, trying not to fall asleep before he reached his bed.

  22

  Jeannie was working on Friday and Don worked HEAVEN again Saturday and Sunday nights, so he wasn’t surprised not to hear from her over the weekend. He rang her on Monday, but she was tired after an afternoon shift, so said she was going straight home. Don had a couple of beers alone in an Irish ex-pat pub near his place, watching a re-run of Man United’s game from the weekend. Between staring up at the big screen he admired the body on the young Chinese barmaid under her tight t-shirt, flirting with her every time he ordered a drink.

  She flirted back, a little, probably out of boredom since there were no more than half a dozen customers in the bar. HEAVEN only opened Thursday to Sunday, but Mickey had him work alone at another club Tuesday and Wednesday, an exclusive little place on the island – businessmen ordering bottles of whisky between them, getting plastered but never too out of hand.

  He saw Jeannie again on Thursday, when they both had the night off, and she stayed round at his flat. This time, when they went to bed, he didn’t think about anybody else.

  23

  Jeannie was still sleeping when he got up so he nipped out to pick up a loaf and a paper. Dropping both on the coffee table, he took a glass of orange juice in to wake up Jeannie so she could shower.

  Lying in bed, the covers half pushed off her naked body, she looked rough. Lines creased her face like the sheet she was lying on, especially around the eyes. That was age catching up. Neither of them could live like they used to without facing the consequences. Last night had featured plenty of wine and a long movie. It must have been nearly three by the time they were finished with each other and she was falling asleep on his arm. At least she’d taken her makeup off this time.

  He shook her gently, left the glass by the bed, went back to the kitchen to put breakfast togethe
r. At about half ten she finished her coffee, gave him a fairly passionate kiss, then re-applied her lipstick and left for work, already late.

  Now Don had the day to himself, and the evening, since he wasn’t working. He should probably hit the gym again, like he’d been meaning to. He refilled his coffee from the kitchen and opened the South China Morning Post. House prices, North Korea, man in court on murder charges. Same old. Pollution targets on the mainland and education costs in Hong Kong. Same old.

  And there, on page six, was a tiny picture of Alexander Fong.

  It was Fong all right. Local businessman found dead in hotel room; suicide; married no children; ‘homosexual relationship’; body found by hotel staff.

  So, the photos had got back to Fong and he’d topped himself. And Don had snapped the pictures that pushed him to it.

  He dropped the paper on the coffee table. Didn’t know what to do, or feel. Then he read the story again with growing nausea. It didn’t say much, a handful of stock lines qualified with phrases like ‘believed to be…’, or ‘apparent’. The words they used until the facts were official, until it had been through the courts.

  It must have been the photos. Don’s photos.

  So Mr Sun confronted him, and it had led to this. Don dropped the paper again, speechless, breathless. It didn’t mention the wife at all. Or the business. Maybe the police didn’t even know about the photos, or maybe they’d been there in the hotel room, clutched in Fong’s dead fingers.

  Can you trace digital pictures? Trace them to the camera they were taken with? No, of course not. Did the police know about Mr Sun? Maybe he’d already told them everything. Well, Don hadn’t done anything wrong. What a cunt Mr Sun was. He must have shown the photos to Fong. Tried to blackmail him, or maybe he sent them anonymously? Old moneyed families wouldn’t stand for that kind of scandal, and that was clearly Fong’s background. He looked like he’d been born into money, everything given to him. Poor bastard, had to live a lie his whole life. Well, Don hadn’t done anything wrong, nobody could touch him on this.

  Still, better not panic if the cops do try to get in touch. It would only be natural. But he hadn’t broken any laws that he knew about.

  Suicide.

  Fucking hell.

  24

  Don tried not to think about Alexander Fong for the day, but as the sun started to drop towards the horizon he found himself driving out toward the Island.

  Paying his respects? That was what he half told himself. Paying respects to the dead, and for his part in it. He parked his car up on the same corner, stood looking through the railings. The evening sun bathed the white walls of the house in orange. Nothing was moving. For all Don knew, the wife had left, to stay with family or something. But both cars were there in the driveway, the silver Merc and the cherry red MG roadster. Don smoked a cigarette, idly fingering his new scar, stubbly where the hair was growing back around it.

  He flicked his cigarette stub into the gutter, saw the small collection of other butts he’d left lying there. Was that evidence? Taking photos was no crime. If the police came calling he’d tell them all about it. The Rolling Stones drifted softly from the open car window.

  Well you’ve got your diamonds,

  and you’ve got your pretty clothes.

  He turned to get back in the car when something caught his eye. A twitch in the curtains? He studied the upstairs window but there was nothing to be seen, and no more movement.

  Hell, he didn’t even know why he came here. He climbed into his beat up old Toyota.

  25

  Back in TST he went for cheap noodles. When he’d finished eating it was still early so he wandered around the shops on the busy main streets for a while, not really looking to buy anything. As the night came on he ended up down by the old pier, leaning on the iron railing. He watched the Star passenger ferries trawl back and forth across the bay, their wakes reflecting the lights from the Island. The last of the red-sailed junks were just scuttling back to port, the stars were bright in the sky. As bright as they ever got over the city, anyway.

  He remembered the first time he’d seen the night sky from outside a city. Incredible. Not from here though. As the last crowd of commuters and tourists pushed past him he flicked his cigarette end into the water. Couldn’t stay here all night. He walked back into downtown, the streets narrowing, the buildings growing over his head until he was almost buried.

  He popped into the Keller, busy with the early evening crowd fresh from the office in suits and satin blouses. Ties were loosened by now, top buttons undone. This lot would be moving onto restaurants soon and then the committed Friday night crowd would be in. The kind that didn’t go out for fun but for the serious business of drinking themselves to death, slowly, surely, night by night, year after year. Like Jonny.

  Rose gave him a welcoming nod. She didn’t like this crowd, the office people. She didn’t like anyone very much, it seemed, but she preferred the quiet drinkers and the Keller had a full complement of those. They sat at the bar forgetting the too dry world outside, forgetting the indignities of their working week or their home life.

  There’s the man who always wears a heavy works jacket in the thickest heat. The man in a ragged and oppressive suit and loosened tie who sighs into a stale old beer. The man in the cap who gazes uneasily and constantly into the same spot on the wall. The woman smoking menthols whose laugh is constant and forced. Either she’s had every joker in there or she wouldn’t touch a single one of them. But either way, it hasn’t made her happy.

  And when a conversation does start up it’ll be the same stories they told last week, because these are the people who have finished making new stories. When the silence comes it feels heavy to an outsider, but they settle into it like a warm bed, cosy and safe. It’s what they know best. Like all the drinkers in all the bars in all the world, these drinkers are unique and interchangeable.

  Don grabbed a beer and found space at a long table near the back, sharing it with a couple up the other end. They were leaning into each other, eyes close, deep in conversation, and didn’t bother with the tall Englishman taking a spot on the corner. They were young and good-looking, both still in office clothes. They probably had a bright and beautiful future ahead of them. Don sat and drank his beer, staring blankly at the crowds. The music was low enough to be easily ignorable. They played the songs they had to play, but few enough people in the Keller wanted to hear it so the volume was set to background.

  His beer glass was nearly empty when the couple stood to leave and Don was thinking of doing the same. Then Michael came up carrying two fresh glasses, sat down next to him.

  “Thought you could use a refill.” Michael placed a beer in front of him, took that day’s paper from under his arm and left it on the table. It was the South China Morning Post.

  “Yeah, cheers mate.”

  They tipped their glasses together and drank.

  “Catching up on the local news?” said Don.

  Michael looked at the headline in front of him. “Can’t say I care too much what house prices are doing around here.”

  “I s’pose not. When are you out of here?”

  “Another three weeks or so.”

  “And then you got a job lined up back home, right?”

  “That’s right, in DC. Big money.”

  “Nice one.” Don picked up the paper and looked over the front page again, thought about the picture on page six. “What about Korea?” Two Koreas Exchange Fire in Yellow Sea, said the column down the side. Tensions high as three South Korean sailors wounded, it continued. “You must have seen that coming, no?”

  Michael gave a half-smile, his lips pressed together, head slightly to one side. They both knew the game. Michael had been military intelligence. Even after leaving he couldn’t say a word about his job, ever. Jonny and Don would ask him questions and Michael gave the same half-smile, never answering. ‘How many tanks are on the border?’ Not a word. ‘Is Kim Jung-Il really still alive?’ Not a
word. ‘Does North Korea have the bomb?’ The same little half-smile. Don swore it was the first thing they taught intelligence guys in the academy. He asked him once which way he voted. Michael said “I can tell you who, but I can’t tell you why.”

  Don sipped his drink again. Occasionally, after a few drinks, Michael let out about the action he saw in Iraq, of sitting in an APC directing teams of Marines or Special Forces guys through the city. Even worked with the SBS a couple of times, which was enough to impress Don. And when he’d occasionally come under fire from AKs and RPGs and IUDs, Michael called these the times when ‘you really re-evaluate your life choices’. At these stories Jonny would just go quiet, nodding his head, his eyes distant. Don knew he was digging through the dirt in his own memory bank, hearing the gunfire, seeing the dust and the blood. Jonny didn’t tell many of his own stories. Not from Iraq, not from anywhere. He liked to listen, though.

  Jonny came up now, laying three more beers on the table, closely followed by that same dizzy girl he’d been seeing, the one with the rose tattoo, who was carrying a large white wine. “Hello boys, I see you started without me.” Don looked at his own glass, still over half full. Well, he didn’t fancy going home alone, and a few beers would do him good. He downed it in one and Jonny and the girl pulled over chairs. It was going to be another of those nights.