Free Hiroshima Joe by Martin Booth

and a round ball of wax-like, brown opium the size of a child’s marble. He pressed this into the pipe and got it melted and going over the flame. Soon it had burned away; he blew out the lamp and lay back. The pipe and lamp were removed by a young boy. He arranged the pillow under the back of his neck, knowing that this way would be most comfortable.
    The sweetish odour of the opium clung to Sandingham’s nostrils as he closed his eyes. He felt his arms grow heavy, then magically lighten. He heard Lucy say, quite clearly but as if from a great distance, ‘This time I fuck you for free!’ Laughter chimed and echoed round his head. Then he heard, as clearly as he heard Lucy, a voice say with considerable peeved annoyance, ‘Well, fuck this for a laugh!’
    It was an emaciated Englishman dressed in tattered shorts, with wooden sandals on his feet. He was standing by the bunk. His sleeve was torn and there was dry blood caked in the lines of his palms, and under his immaculately manicured fingernails.

P ART T WO
    Hong Kong: Christmas, 1941

     
     
    T HE FIRST FIFTY yards of Harlech Road were only just wide enough to allow passage for the Austin K30 truck. The private driving it had difficulty getting the vehicle round the corner, his problem compounded by the fact that the headlights were covered with black metal masks which stopped all but the flimsiest of beams from escaping. What was more, the officer in charge had instructed him to turn the corner as quickly as possible. As long as the lorry was at the junction it was visible as a tiny but significant silhouette: a shrewd observer over on Kowloon, equipped with a pair of powerful night binoculars and looking up at the mountain, would see the movement and note it down for further action in the morning. In his hurry to get into Harlech Road the driver had scraped the broad mudguard along the stone wall at the bottom of Mount Austin Road; the steel was bare along the deep scratch, and there was a white stripe like a flesh wound on the granite blocks.
    The officer walked behind the truck. All he could see was the white disc attached to the rear axle, under the wooden-sided truck bed.
    Where the road widened somewhat, the driver stopped the lorry and the officer worked his way around the nearside and got into the cab, his boot clicking on the running step.
    ‘Been here before?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘Then carry on but take it easy. The road stays narrow for some way – after a bit there’s a passing place where you can pull off to the left and stop. I’ll tell you when.’ The officer paused, then added, ‘When you do pull over, watch for rocks. Some of them stick up a bit. Certainly as high as the sump cover.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    The driver jarred the gears which slurred heavily together as he sought first: they moved off at dead slow speed. The faint lights showed virtually nothing in the shade of the trees that overhung the road.
    ‘Go slower here.’ Then, more urgently, ‘Stop. Switch off the engine.’
    The lorry halted. As soon as the motor was silent both men could hear water sluicing and tumbling in the night.
    ‘There’s a waterfall just in front, to the right of the roadway. I’ll walk ahead and you follow me. It’s on a corner. Tight bend left, iron railings on either side. Try not to decorate them with khaki…’
    The driver nodded his understanding in the darkness and the officer got out, holding behind his back a sheet of message paper. The driver could see this as a white, indistinct blur. He started the engine once again.
    The waterfall drew nearer and, walking ahead of the truck, the officer was freed from the incessant moan of the vehicle motor. He listened to the water.
    It had a peace about it. No matter how powerful or surging the torrent, no matter how much threat it might hold, water always seemed peaceful. Perhaps that was why, Sandingham reasoned, the Chinese talked of the fung shui, the local gods, who were of water. Shui meant water.