Previously: To pay off a gambling debt, Steven Chance has agreed to carry a copper-coloured ring from the bottom of the hidden city of Empire Street in Hong Kong to the Vault of Heaven at the top. But first, he has rescued a woman called Jo from the harbour, at the expense of his shoes…
Part Two
Side Track
The first sign that something was wrong was when the people faded away.
Jo noticed it too.
"Something's up," she said. "This doesn't feel right."
They were on what passed for a broad thoroughfare: an open roof walled on one side by a flat concrete wall of a large silo that was plastered with semi-erotic posters and on the other by a dozen canvass market stalls.
They’d approached the lower docks and the Wicket Gate that would let them onto Empire Street. A hundred yards away across a strung wooden rope bridge.
Between them and the bridge, two, no three figures had loitered in the shadows.
They’d drawn closer to the bridge. A new figure had appeared on the path. It was a figure Steven had recognised: the one-eyed man from the club.
He’d not liked it. So he’d led them away again.
They’d circled around the waterfronts, the jetties and wharfs clinging in arcs and semicircles like bracket fungus around the roots of the city. Jo’s mules clomped loud on the echoing planks where his bare feet slapped quietly on the wood leaving only a trail of wet footprints. He tried to keep an eye out for anyone selling shoes.
An abandoned cart, high wheels and broken traces, had made an improvised ramp to take them up to higher levels, where wooden boards made a path across the rooftops of small warehouses and storerooms in an erratic array of levels and bridges.
Shisu, the locals called it: the Worldly Way.
Somehow hovel dwellings and open stalls had crowded them right up to the fringes of the walkways, often piled on top of each other like barnacles until it became necessary to build a new level.
These stalls looked like they'd been selling fried seafood and rice until about two minutes ago. Awnings had been hastily drawn; shutters quickly pulled down.
Steven checked behind them to see another couple of shadows detach themselves and block their retreat. Another couple, or had they followed?
"Jo," he said, "you try and get out of here."
"You know," she said, "I don't think I will." And she shook her shoulders and fell into a half-way decent martial arts pose.
"Look, I don't think—" was as far as he got before Steven had to ball up is fists and defend himself as men broke from the shadows and came charging towards them.
The first guy barrelled into him and he went down, the pair of them tumbling into one of the stalls. The awning tore with a huge ripping sound and they fell inside scattering iron pans and hot food.
There was a squawk of outrage from a little man who had been cowering within and a sandaled foot started kicking at both Steven and his attacker.
The heavy, being rather better at this than Steven, was on top pummelling him, and so took the worst of this fresh attack. He paused in his business to kneel up, straddling Steven's chest, and turned to deliver a blow to the stallholder, but then two more of the street traders came rushing up to join the fray and knocked him off Steven.
Rolling onto his belly, Steven tried to squirm out of the affray. Two heavy, dirty, sandaled feet came down either side of his head. He squinted up to see another tough reaching down for him when another foot, a delicate muled foot, flashed out in a high kick that sent him tumbling onto his heavily muscled ass.
Jo pulled him to his feet.
"I really think we ought to get out of here!"
"No shi—"
The two men from behind them came running up to join the fight now and Steven had to hurl himself out of their way. By good fortune, his jump collided with Jo and he carried her clear too. The two thugs went straight past, crashing into the struggle between the stallholders and his first attacker which quickly became a six-way fist fight.
"Nice move!" said Jo. He wasn't sure she wasn't being sarcastic.
"Come on," he told her, and they dashed towards the bridge.
Someone had started throwing pans around and one skittered across their path but they ignored it and kept on running. Behind them there were shouts and the sounds of more people running. They kept on until the sound of the fight had dwindled behind them.
They pulled up and Steven was panting. Jo burst out laughing and after a moment he joined her.
"Will they follow us?" she asked after recovering her breath.
"Probably. But not till things have quietened down a bit. We'll be clear of them once we get through the Gate; they'll not follow us there, leastways not without getting past the guard."
"Triffic. Where's this gate then?"
Wicket Gate
The Up Gate is a very thin doorway that leads from the outside world of the hidden harbour to the lowest steps of Empire Street, or, more specifically, into the close confines of the plant room in the deep basements at the bottom of one of the city towers.
An open space in front of the door, like a small town square, is kept clear of the usual shanty buildings by regular demolitions, saving only the smart toll hut of the guardmaster. He is there to examine the credentials of – or take an appropriate bribe from – anyone seeking to enter the door.
Once you have his permission, and once the couple of men he keeps with him step out of your way, you are allowed to pass through the outer door which only lets onto a small square room that is part of the foundation wall. But, like the castle gates of old, that is only the outermost part of the entrance.
From there, a further narrow passage takes you between huge throbbing machines, black with old grease, that make the air hot and close with their workings. More guards keep watch on this pass, stood up above on metal gratings, and they can drop wire-mesh doors like the old portcullises, to catch any intruder there where they can be shot like a rat in a trap.
If you are suffered to get past this hazard, you reach another, slightly larger square room, containing a further guard post, this one manned by one of the Empire Street Constables. He, it is usually a he, is equipped with a wind-up telephone and a large ledger where you will be expected to sign your name. Then, and only then, will the Constable telephone to his counterpart on the inner side of the last heavy steel door to unlock. And that door, nine feet tall but just two feet wide and studded with diamond-shaped metal bosses, will open.
Jo went through first. She had paid the toll for both of them, or she said she did – Steven hadn't thought she'd had any money in her soaked catsuit, but she'd come to some arrangement – but the guardmaster insisted that they could only pass one at a time.
"If you're hoping for another bribe, you can tell at a glance I'm financially embarrassed," Steven told him jokingly. He just growled.
"Thought I heard the sound of a fight," he grunted.
Steven didn't feel like explaining.
"So did I, actually. Little squabble, probably. Shopkeepers, eh?"
The guardmaster looked at one of his men and jerked his head in the direction of the bridge. The man set off to look, unenthusiastically.
The silence continued to weigh heavy.
"Stick to the path," said the guardmaster abruptly.
"Excuse me?"
"Empire Street. Stick to your path. It'll go the worse for you if you go astray."
"Well, er, thanks. That's most reassuring. By which I mean entirely not."
His sarcasm was lost on the guardmaster. "Go on with you," he said, with another twitch of his head, this time towards the sally port.
"Oh. Is that it? Right, I'll be…"
Steven gave up trying to find a conversational gambit and ducked into the gate.
To his surprise, Jo had actually waited for him on the inside.
Hěn nán
The approaches of Empire Street beyond the gate were called the Hěn nán. Lined with more stalls, tiny ones, barely more than a trestle and a chair but made colourful with awnings and lanterns, selling hot food and candies, they squashed themselves into every available space, turning the access ways between the plant and machinery of the skyscrapers above into dark and twisted alleyways. The route of Empire Street could have been lost in the chaos but for a procession of Union Flags hung from the ceiling above the right path.
Jo was chatting and laughing with another woman, a huge black lady in an orange sundress that could have doubled as an awning for one of the stalls. She put back her head and laughed at something Jo said showing all her teeth. Steven wondered if it had been about him.
Three surly-looking black men were loitering behind this colourful lady, and Steven guessed they were with her. The largest was clearly a bodyguard, while the other two, encumbered with a number of parcels, were porters.
Standing apart, an elderly oriental man in a long-coated black suit was watching them all with some disdain.
"Steven, there you are!" declared Jo.
"Who's you friend?" he asked.
"Steven, this is Mama Hip," Jo replied, "and her friends Sleepy, Dopey and Bashful. I think she may have been joking with me." And then, indicating the old man, she added, "And that's Mr Form," to complete the company.
"And these are the friends you were looking for?"
"Oh no; we're just all headed in the same direction. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten I still owe you a pair of shoes."
"So we're still together, eh"
"Still together." She gave him her best reassuring smile, which was what he was after.
"Best be off then." He addressed the other: "Are we all coming?"
"Assuredly," replied the old Mr Form. Mama Hip meanwhile gathered up her porters, swatting them with a huge handbag she was carrying until they were corralled behind her, carrying all her packages and bags. "Come along den, lovers," she declared and like a royal barge taking to the river, began to process up Empire Street, taking the path under the hanging Union Flags.
"As though she wasn't the one keeping us waiting," said Jo aside to Steven, laughing.
As they walked, Mr Form approached and tried to engage Steven in conversation.
"Are you travelling all the way up the Street?"
"Maybe," Steven was reluctant to give his own plans away, "at the moment, I'm just seeing Jo back to her friends. What about you, Mr Form?"
"One always hopes to be seen in the highest company. It makes a good impression with my clients."
"Clients? Who are they, then?"
"The right sort of people. Of course. Who are the people that you work for, Mr Chance?"
"The, ah, yeah the right sort. Like you say. The ones who pay."
"Ah, most perspicacious of you. Maybe I know some people. Might have an offer for you."
"Well, I'm mostly freelance."
"Most correct. That is the way, is it not? Freedom. Be your own man, do they not say? You are pilot, I gather. Surely many opportunities. But still, a contract can be a form of freedom, too."
"Er, you lost me."
"Security, certainty, these are freedom. Freedom from worry, naturally, from trouble. No? Own your own shoes, maybe?"
"I was robbed."
"Of course. So untrustworthy, those in city depths. Much better now we're on the Street. Path to better places, do they not say?"
"Yeah, they say that. But I didn't see you coming in at the Wicket Gate? No one else signed in with the Constable today."
"There are many ways onto the path, Mr Chance. All that matters is we're here now, no? So, contract. Do I say you might be interested?"
Before Steven had to answer, there was a disturbance from one of the stalls.
The cavernous interior of the plant room had given way to a series of ramps and stairs that climbed around the inside of the skyscraper's foundations to its lowest floors. Access points for utilities, power and water and sewerage, together with the boxy metal tubing of the air conditioning and the bottoms of lift shafts made up the surrounding architecture around which nest-like habitats and the ever-present stall-fronts had been woven.
In front of one of these, Mama Hip was stood waving a raised fist and screaming into the face of a tiny Chinese grandmother who was, just as defiantly, staring back up at the huge black woman and giving as good as she got.
Giving Form the slip, Steven returned to Jo's side and asked what was going on.
"I think Dopey may have stolen something." But Steven suddenly wasn't paying attention.
"Cobblers!" he said.
"No, it’s true I… oh! Shoes!"
It was true; there was another stall nearby displaying open boxes of trainers.
"Come on," said Jo, "We can sort you out while they're arguing." And she took him by the arm and led him over to pick out some replacement footware. They were cheap knockoffs and almost certainly wouldn't last, but mainly he was just pleased with the fit. He wondered how Jo had managed to pay for them.
Looking back to Mama Hip and the old woman, he saw that the bodyguard, "Bashful", had joined them. Silently, he leaned forward and appeared to show old the woman something and her mouth shut like a trap. She blinked a couple of times, and then scooted backwards into her hut-like shop and snatched closed the curtains.
All smiles now, Mama sailed back towards them.
"Whatever did you say to shut her up like that?" asked Jo naively.
"Thems rules is for tourists, ma dear," said Mama, "not for proper business folks like me and ma boys. The little lady only needed remindin' there don't be no need to haggle."
Steven gave a wry smile and half nodded, while scoffing internally, but Jo seemed to buy this explanation.
At the top of the next stair, they came to a pair of service doors with a push-bar release. No one seemed to be about, but Steven was sure that at least a couple of pairs of eyes were watching as they pushed open the portal.
They stepped out into the lowest level of a carpark.
It was empty, possibly abandoned. After the warmth and light of the plant room, it was chill and the air smelled rank as though somewhere not too distant someone had been using the place as an open urinal. Which they probably had. Few of the old neon strip lights were still working, adding gloom to the list of the place's faults.
Mama wrinkled up her nose in disgust. "Lets us be getting through this'm place, boys. To somewhere a sight more wholesome."
"I agree," said Jo. "I don't like this at all. But which way do we go now?"
"It's okay, ladies," said Steven with confidence born of warm feet and having been here before, "the stairs are over here."
"Is it safe?" Jo asked. "I've heard… all sorts of stories."
"Haunted carparks?" joked Steven, "pirate gangs roaming the ramps in ancient motors, raiding the paystations?"
"Something like that," she admitted.
"Maybe," he said. "But not this deep. The Empire has a treaty or something. Or maybe there's just something else down here that keeps them away."
"That's not very reassuring!"
He laughed again and for the first time led the party's way. There were no longer flags to follow, but here and there coloured plastic had been stuck over the neon strips to colour the lights, making them alternately red, white and blue. It didn't help the light level, but it showed the way. He set a quick pace, for which everyone was grateful, and took them across the empty parking bays to one of the huge supporting columns near the middle adjacent a ramp, for cars, up to the next level. A max headroom sign hung over the ramp, dangling at a slightly forlorn angle on its broken chains.
As he led them up the ramp to the next level, suddenly the tiny, rotund form of another little old Chinese woman emerged from the darkness. She might have been the twin of the stallholder Bashful had cowed, wreathed in curls of incense and candle smoke. Laid out behind her on the next ramp were dozens of bright yellow paper tigers.
"Forgive me, mama," said Steven at once, apologising, bowing and backing away all at once.
"Wat is dis? What's happ'nin'?" demanded Mama Hip, bustling up behind him.
"Shush, be quiet," Steven snapped, "it's the villain hitter, sacrificing to Bái Hǔ. Leave her to her work."
"Indeed," agreed Mr Form, "respect the traditions of an old lady, however foolish we may know them to be."
"Is she in our way?" demanded Mama.
"No, no, we're going this way," said Steven, indicating the far side of the ramp.
"Den she can do as she damn well likes. Where are we goin'?"
"Here," said Steven.
"Here?!"
Beyond the ramp, a narrow opening into the column revealed the foot of a concrete stairwell, steep steps and a metal pipe for a handrail quickly vanished round a corner. No light could be seen. The smell of urine was, if anything, stronger.
"You want us to go up dat little stair?" Mama was incredulous. "I never seen such a t'ing, and us all like rats in a drainpipe! You'm not taking me up dat trap! Even if I could be fitting!"
She shook her ample frame at him, as if to imply that she might get stuck. The stair was narrow, but she was being ridiculous.
"An besides, there be a much easier path, right here!"
With a sweep of her arm she indicated the car ramp, ignoring the little shape of the old villain hitter who continued to stare up at them all with unblinking belligerence.
"Quite correct, the lady is," agreed Mr Form. "Surely, this way must meet up with stairs on next level. Or further up. Be that as it may, surely we are better to take path where we can see what, as you say, is coming."
"What about the—" Steven gestured ineffectually at the horde of paper tigers.
"Superstition and nonsense!" sneered Mama, while Form replied "Respect for tradition is not to be taken too far, especially if we are not to respect practicalities first."
"Look," said Steven, "I only know this way."
"I'm going with Steven," said Jo a little petulantly. He'd have been more grateful if she hadn't continued: "you are sure this is the way?"
"Well, the car park is pretty big," she added. "It seems to run under most of this block of the city. We might not find the way to meet up again."
"Don't be silly, ma dear," said Mama. "Dat man Form is right. Obviously, bot' ways ends up in da same place on da far side. And der could be anyt'ing up there."
As if to agree with her, a distant boom seemed to sigh down the narrow stairwell followed by the drumbeat sound of… something… coming down the steps.
Mama's bodyguard reacted by reaching for something concealed at his waistband. Steven got a glimpse of what "Bashful" had revealed to the elderly stallswoman. As he'd guessed, it was a large handgun. He expected the others were armed too; it was no doubt why they'd sneaked past the Wicket Gate.
"It seems that Mistress Hip is right," said Form, "and it would be most wrong to tarry. Let us be going, up this way."
"Mama is with you, little man," declared Mama Hip, pushing aside the old Chinese and scattering paper tigers. "Wait for me, man, wait for me!"
And that was the last that Steven or Jo or in fact as it turned out anybody else at all was ever to see of them. Worse things than pirates haunt the by-ways beyond the writ of the Empire Street and, as I know but Steven did not, whatever it was that found them it was not to be stopped by Bashful's handgun and left nothing behind but for scraps of bright yellow paper.
"Come on," said Steven, leaving the ungrateful Hip and Form to find their own path to destruction, and starting up the stairs. He didn't look back, but he could hear Jo's footsteps on the stair behind him and it made him smile.
The stair went up in flights of thirteen, doubling back on itself at each landing, and to be fair to Mama it was hard to imagine her levering her bulky frame up the steps with any dignity. The second flight was only dimly lit by the distant neon in the car park; the third was almost pitch black. But after that, the light became better again, and Steven realised that he remembered it would. After six turns they paused on the landing for breath. He was profoundly grateful for the new trainers; the rough concrete would have been murder in bare feet.
The ominous pounding had continued to fall down around them as they ascended until suddenly, there on the landing, they ran into the source: another of the Empire Street Constables, with a cape about his shoulders and carrying a blue lantern.
"Afternoon," he said politely.
"Hello, officer," said Steven, "what brings you here today?"
"Constabulary business, sir. If you could just let me by…"
"Oh, yeah, sorry. Natch."
They couldn't have passed on the stairs – even if Steven hadn't believed it would bring bad luck – but on the landing there was just enough room for two people to squeeze by side by side.
"Ma'am," said the Constable, tipping his helmet when he saw Jo coming up behind.
"Hello, constable," she replied. "Is there some kind of trouble?"
"Can't say, ma'am. Some report of a disturbance lower down. I've been sent to investigate. I don't suppose you know anything."
Jo and Steven exchanged glances.
"I don't think so, constable," she said, convincingly. "We've just come up from the Gate. We didn't have any trouble."
"No, ma'am. Probably nothing in it. You all go safely now. Stick to the path."
"Thank you. We will."
They pressed on, the staccato drumroll of the constable's footsteps and the blue gleam of his lamp disappearing into the well below.
"Do you think there's really something going on below?" asked Jo.
"If there is, love, we're the lucky ones, leaving it behind."
They climbed on, and Steven almost immediately forgot the constable and his lamp had ever existed. It was a long way up and the narrowness of the stairs meant they couldn't even talk easily. Though after that first half-dozen flights, keeping his breath was already hard enough to discourage chit chat. Finally, on about the eleventh landing – Steven had lost count – the stairs debouched into what looked like a cupboard used by cleaners. Buckets, mops, work-stained overalls: all could have been designed to trip and tangle; and a doorway. It opened onto gleaming, floodlit marble and… Jo whooped!
"Look! Shops!"
House of Beauty
They entered a gleaming world of commerce, an artificial sealed corridor of glass storefronts: a shopping mall!
Clothes, all sorts of clothes, jewellery, consumer electronics, of course, and ubiquitous mobile phones. Everything the modern tourist could want to buy, all priced in pounds shillings and pence.
Incongruous Victorian lampposts marched the length of the mall, hung with a blue pennon with a union flag in the canton and a local waterfront scene in a roundel on the fly: the official flag of Hong Kong – nineteen-twenty-nine version.
And everywhere, people. The vast majority were Chinese, and the majority of the rest were dour-looking bearded Englishmen. And all bustling between shops but taking no pleasure in their shopping, taut with some pervading fear. The way Steven saw it, the place was wound up and ready to pop. Best to get out quick.
Their little cupboard opened onto one end of the mall; The House of Beauty lay at the far end and up a couple more floors. Thankfully, there were escalators.
The upper level of the mall, rather than a corridor of a single story, was more like an open street with long balconies above, where bars and restaurants and gambling dens overlooked the busy shoppers. The House of Beauty, a gauche crimson-fronted building with topiaried bushes displayed in lacquered pots before its columned frontage, its shuttered windows and its bronzed front doors, dominated the far end of the mall like a cliff face waiting to be scaled.
Steven remembered the place. He'd come here when he was fourteen, with his best friend Li Lin. A first time for both of them. They'd sworn to be friends forever. Three years later, Li had been shot dead in a gang fight. Steven had been with the gang that shot him. It was the only time he was glad they hadn't trusted him with a gun. He stared at the House, remembering and sighing.
Jo took one look at it and stopped him in his tracks.
"It's a brothel, isn't it," she said, suddenly seeming very worldly-wise.
"You didn't know?"
She just paused, and for that moment, he had no idea what she was thinking.
"Come on then," she said.
They were greeted, once inside, by a perfectly charming young woman, and Steven was inclined to do exactly as she asked, but Jo, rolling her eyes at him, grabbed the woman's arm and said very firmly:
"No thank you. We are here to meet Mike Jones, you hear me, Mike Jones. Assuming he's not…" she grimaced "…busy, we'll see him at once."
"Mister Jones expecting you," said the woman with a disdainful sneer that said "Mister Jones" could do a lot better than a Jo still dirty and bedraggled from a dunking in the harbour. Then she looked pointedly at Steven and added: "No expecting him."
"He's with me. We'll both see Mike… Mister Jones together."
"That extra."
Jo scowled. "Well, put it on his bill, then. Just take us to him, will you."
Mister Jones turned out to be a young English man dressed in an army uniform. A captain, perhaps. Steven really had no idea.
"Hello Jo! Gosh, you look a state. Who's your friend?"
"Mike, this is Steven, Steven Chance," introduced Jo, formal as a duchess once again. And then straight away reverted to her child-like persona and blurted: "Oh, Mike, I'm sorry. I got jumped by the opposition. At least I think it must have been them. And they stole the, er," she glanced guiltily at Steven "the, er, you know. And dropped me in the sea. And Steven here jumped in after me. I rather promised I'd make it up to him."
"I see," said Mr Jones. "Look, um, Steven was it. I've got a couple of rooms here. Why don't we put you up in one of those for the night? They'll see you right. If you know what I mean. Do your laundry. Spot of room service. Call us quits in the morning, how does that sound?"
"Sounds very generous," said Steven. Sounds like you're trying to get rid of me, he thought. He wondered if this "Mister Jones" fancied his chances with Jo. He didn't look the type, but you never could tell with these English.
Still no skin of his nose; Jo wasn't his type, was she. He allowed Mister Jones to lead him to another room.
"See you tomorrow then," he said to Jo as he left.
"Yes," she said, "sure," transparent and miserably guilty, "I'll see you tomorrow."
The room he was left in was about what you would expect. Similar to Mister Jones', there was a large bed and little other furniture. Dark, wood-panelled walls, no windows, tasteful prints hanging – landscapes, nothing too suggestive. A shower room was attached. There was a silk kimono dressing gown hung on the back of the shower room door, so he stripped off his dirty clothes, bundling them into a laundry bin.
There was a discreet knock and one of the house maids entered, her eyes demurely downcast. She collected his laundry and asked if there was anything else he wanted.
Well, he thought, the English are paying. So he told her exactly what he had in mind.
