Previously: Climbing the dangerous stairs of Hong Kong's hidden Empire Street, Steven Chance has fulfilled his promise to deliver Jo to the dubious refuge of the House of Beauty. But trouble and a one-eyed man are following close behind…
Part Three
The Valley of Fear
He woke up alone, but his clothes were waiting for him, fresh and clean and hanging neatly, so he decided to call it next morning. He showered and dressed before sauntering out to face the world. The sounds of the House remained busy around him, but Mister Jones' room was – as he'd expected – empty.
There was a different woman in the entrance hall. Older, with more make-up and some grey in her hair. Clearly, she was the dragon in this lair, the notorious Lady Prudence.
"Good morning, Mister Chance," she said. "You settle up now?"
"No way, Lady Pru," he said, "I didn't float in on the banana boat. All paid for by Mister Jones, yes?" And paid up front, too, I bet, he thought.
She made a play of checking a book.
"Of course, so sorry. Everything most satisfactory."
"Well, I should say," he said with a smirk. "Any word of the English?"
"Mister Jones and he friend, they leave early. No message."
"Didn't think there would be," he said.
But he thought, So long then, Jo.
Where now, then? Involuntarily, he found himself fingering the ring. Further up Empire Street? It only got more difficult from here. He could vanish back into the Hěn nán. Lose himself for a day or so. See if there were any little jobs to be had. Maybe get a decent pair of sneakers.
He was almost out the door of the House before he checked himself. There, drinking in front of one of the bars that were open in spite of the indecency of the hour, was a figure he recognised. The one-eyed man from Downfall. Had he followed him? Was he lying in wait?
Steven ducked back inside the House.
"Ah, Mister Chance," the old hag greeted him again, "welcome back. Will you be paying for yourself today?"
"Oi, I've not left the first time yet!"
"Of course, you forgive little joke, yes? You forget something, maybe?"
"Only where I'm going. I'm on my way up the Street, you see, not back down. Isn't there another way out?"
"Ah, of course. Take stair to upper level. Bridge door is at back of House."
"And you don't have to put on that old Chinese shtick for me, either," he said.
"Aw, you good boy. But act has become habit now. Here let me show you bridge door."
And Lady Prudence actually mussed his hair, like a grandmother with her favourite, before leading him through the House, up the stairs, again, and along another hall to another entrance that all but matched the one below, like the place was a Chinese puzzle-box. Only some of the lacquer-work in green rather than red gave the game away.
And beyond this door… the outside world.
All the stairs he and Jo had climbed had brought them higher than Steven had thought, and sealed in the airtight world of plant and car park and mall and House he'd not realised that he was now two stories above ground. The outside of the House opened into a gully between two skyscrapers, and overlooked the open street. The air was filled with the smell of ozone and petrol fumes and the beeping of cars gridlocked on the street below. It was dark for a morning, and a light rain was falling. Or if it wasn't rain it was condensation from the skyscrapers' air-conditioning. But the air was, in its own way, fresh and Steven took a deep gulp, surprising himself.
A rope bridge was strung across the street from the door of the House. It tied off on the far side, from where more bridges were strung. Wires, cables, satellite dishes, they all served to obscure and support the network of bridges and flyways, some with wooden planking, some no more than two cables strung one above the other, that made a spiderweb between the canyon walls between the 'scrapers.
The Valley of Bridges it was called by the locals, many of whom actually lived here, hanging, jumping and diving between ropes strung between buildings. To outsiders it was the Valley of Fear. To Steven Chance, it was coming home.
Barely suppressing a whoop to be out in the free air again, he almost danced onto the first bridge. Losing himself in the Hěn nán; what had he been thinking? This was his sort of territory. He could quickly gain a few more stories in height and get his bearings, and then he'd be off, away, free. Anywhere in the Dark City. Or even Hong Kong.
From the end of the first bridge, he took another that branched more steeply up back across the Valley. An abandoned window cleaners' cradle was hanging from the roof of the tower there, its mechanism thick with rust a testament to how long it had been here, loose cables dangling down, and more rope paths attached in several directions. Slackrope walking skills ingrained from childhood, Steven ran up one length of cable to where it was tied off on another rope bridge, then crossed to yet another, this one running lengthwise along the street suspended at the base of a huge advertising poster. A geisha the size of a titan was offering him a bottle of Coke.
The raucous beeping and hooting of cars below seemed to be increasing, in spite of his gaining altitude above them. He paused to take a look below while a couple of kid-flyers came scampering past him on the bridge. They were going fast, probably carrying something – messages between the banks and trading floors often went by the flyers; it was almost as fast as e-mail and far more secure.
Steven looked back down to the ground. The traffic had snarled entirely to a halt, and there looked to be a good few people out of their cars and adding their shouted abuse to the hubbub. It seemed like there was a lot of anger about, down there. He remembered the angry fearful face of the people in the mall. Something was rising, up from the depths, following the paths of Empire Street. Following him.
Better for me to get off the Street, then, he thought.
Easier said than done, though. The Valley was like a canyon here, with glass and metal walls. No rooftop alleyways to escape across. One or two of the tower blocks had balconies that were linked to bridges or ropes; most of these were owned by the businessmen of Empire Street though, and they wouldn't be very amenable to letting him use their back doors. Better to try and work his way to one end of the block or the other and break out that way.
He let the geisha choose for him: she was looking to her right, so that was the way he went, running, jumping, climbing ladders. He spotted a field of kites on the far side of the Valley, but couldn't figure an easy route to get there. A pity; some of the larger ones could bear the weight of a man. At least for long enough to let him sail away.
It seemed like the geisha had led him false. There was his luck with women again. The Valley showed no signs of opening out, and the bridges were fewer here.
Another flyer overtook him.
"Hey, mister," she called as she leaped from the end of bridge, "you know that man's following you?"
"What man?"
But she was gone already.
He leaned out, trying to see behind him, but without much luck. So, he grabbed one of the free hanging ropes and, wrapping it tight about his arm, he took a run along the bridge and threw himself out into space.
The arc of his swing took him out into the middle of the Valley, and he got a clear look down. Flyers were running here and there, but one figure stood out. Surefooted, but careful, not reckless like the flyers, the one-eyed man looked up at just the wrong moment, catching sight of Steven in mid-air.
He fumbled. For a long moment he thought he was going to miss his landing and then he would have other things to worry about than a one-eyed pursuer. But he crashed into a glass window and bounced back onto one of the more solid bridges, quickly tangling his free arm and legs into the ropes to stop himself tumbling any further.
What to do? His instinct was to gain height. He still had the hanging rope in his hand; looking up he saw he could climb up to a cable and cross to one of the balconies. Maybe he'd get lucky, and they'd let him use the stairs.
There was a fluttering sound, and then a rush of air and then something heavy collided with him knocking him off the bridge.
There was another long moment when he expected to fall. He didn't. His left leg was still tangled in the bridge's ropes. He found himself dangling upside down, held by one leg and the free rope that he was still hanging onto.
Someone was kicking at his leg!
He used the rope to pull himself back upright.
On the rope bridge was a tiny little man in a gold wing-suit, with matching flight helmet and bronzed sunglasses. The slogan "Bad 1" picked out in red enamel on the helmet. Steven knew him.
"Apollo?!" he shouted.
"Mister Chance," replied the golden midget, "What a long time it has been." He resumed kicking Steven's leg.
"Apollo! What the hell are you doing?"
"You were one of my flyers, Mr Chance," he didn't stop kicking this time, so Steven hauled harder on the rope, pulling himself back up towards the bridge, "You were one of the best," continued the little man, "but then you go sign yourself to someone else. Very bad for business."
"Apollo, flying is a kids' game! We grow out of it, we grow too…"
"What?"
"…big…" finished Steven lamely. Apollo's next kick was aimed considerably higher.
"Jesus! You little sod!" Steven struck out wildly, trying to hit his attacker but, anchored only at either limb, succeeded only in flailing his body about.
Apollo, however, ran lightly along the bridge and then jumped into the air. The wind caught the wings of his suit, and he whipped around in a circular glide, aiming himself for another attack on Steven. Still flapping like a landed fish, there was nothing Steven could do to avoid the human missile as he crashed into his arm. The rope burned his palm and forearm and his shoulder screamed in agony as it dislocated.
The furious midget grasped the rope and slid down a few meters before kicking off again from the glass window-wall, catching the air in his wings and turning a somersault to regain height. Under other circumstances, Steven would have been impressed.
He really couldn't keep his grip on the hanging rope, though, and he certainly couldn't pull himself up with that arm any more. So, he let it go. He hung, by one leg, head down over the Valley. The nearest bridge below him was too far off to the left, even if he could manage a bit of glide in the crosswind. He was definitely going to make a mess of someone's car.
Apollo alighted on the bridge once more, and this time started to unwind the rope that held Steven's left leg. Half-heartedly Steven tried to kick him but couldn't reach. Deft little fingers were more successful than brute kicking. He felt his leg slip, and then come free.
The copper ring was catching the sunlight as he started to fall.
And then there were birds, pigeons, hundreds of them, all around him, colliding with him, pummelling him, buffeting him, carrying him, good grief, carrying him the extra distance to the nearest bridge. He landed on the slats, rolling over on his injured shoulder, which did it no good at all, but still managing to spring to his feet like a high wire act at the circus.
With a keening cry of fury, Apollo launched himself from the higher bridge, a swooping dive to bring him down on Steven once more. Steven turned and ran. He ran lightly, springing from wooden slat to slat, and, in his head, calculations were tumbling. Because Apollo was a bloody good aerialist, magnificent, miraculous even. But Steven was the best. He could compute a flight-path as easily as breath and he knew exactly the moment to…
He swung round with his good arm and punched Apollo straight in the head.
The little man was knocked clean out of the air, felled, his sunglasses cracked. He hit the decking of the bridge, bounced, and toppled off. Steven let him fall. He watched, though. Apollo fell a long way before the wing suit opened again, arresting his fall. And then he crashed into a window.
He wasn't coming back up from that. At least, not quickly. But the little flyer boss wasn't the only person pursuing Steven in this maze of ropes. Suddenly Empire Street seemed a whole lot better idea. Time to get back on the path.
The Valley of Shadow
Someone's air conditioning was on fire.
The upper Valley was thick with darkness, a cloud of dark sooty smoke and sparks occluding the higher reaches. The smoke and occasional flame hung unnaturally in the air, though, like a dark awning over the street, like the miasma around some dragon's cave.
A number of bridges tied up just below the cloud layer, but only one – less a bridge, more a narrow metal girder – went up into the murk.
Steven didn't like this. Flying was a sport best practiced in daylight.
At the top end of that girder, though, if it still matched his memories, was a lawned roof garden dotted with bonsai, and a glass pagoda that opened onto one of the trading floors that were the principal domain of the men of property, the ironically named Vanity Fair.
With a bit of luck, he still had a few friends there; he better have, as he would need someone to sub him the surety to enter the Fair.
There was no going back now. The one-eyed man was dogged, if not swift, in his pursuit. But with only one working arm, Steven wasn't as fast as he could have been either, and he'd been forced to take several detours because he doubted his ability to make a particular leap or to keep his balance over a particular drop. But even if it were not for his relentless pursuer, he didn't like the sounds coming up from street level, which, far from receding as he climbed, had only become louder and angrier. Were there people fighting down there? What the hell was going on?
But then there was this. The cloud smelled of oil and chemical cleaner. He sighed. Unbuttoning his shirt, he struggled out of it, wrenching his shoulder repeatedly, and then put it back on back-to-front and upside down, so he could tie the flapping ends behind his head to make a crude mask over his mouth and nose out of his shirt tails. He thought about kicking off his shoes – his bare feet would be more sensitive to the metal spar – but he didn't want to lose another pair of sneakers. With a deep breath, he went up into the smoke and dark.
Immediately it stung his eyes and they watered profusely. Visibility was effectively nil anyway; he certainly couldn't see the beam of the girder, and each step was an agony of feeling ahead with one foot while balanced on the other. Confidence was the key. If he started to doubt, he'd end up either paralysed with fear or flapping his arms about and toppling clean off. So he kept his arms spread just wide enough for a little balance and relied on the model in his head and the tap-tapping of one foot after the other for his path across the chasm.
The girder was eighty-three steps from end to end, by Steven's estimation, at a rising angle of around twenty degrees.
After ten steps, there came a great roaring sound and he paused. The cloud billowed about him. There was almost no wind, though a little rain was still falling, not that it seemed to clear the smoke much. There was another roar and suddenly he was showered with burning ash. It stuck to his exposed back and burnt him, but there was not a lot he could do about it. The roar came again, and he was ready for it, turning away to avoid another spattering of clinker. It was a regular eruption. He timed it. He moved on.
After another dozen paces, he encountered the first tripwire. His foot, going cautiously forwards, snagged on something. He put his foot back down. Edged half a pace closer. Then very cautiously, reached out with his foot and tapped carefully at the wire stretched across the path. It was about thirty centimetres above the surface of the girder, and crossed at an irregular diagonal angle. It could be anything: an old-style telephone line; a satellite feed; an ISDN cable, perhaps covertly wired into a rival's network. With great care, he placed one foot down on the girder on the far side of the wire. Slowly, he shifted his weight onto his front foot. Then he lifted his trailing foot. Cautiously, he touched it to the wire to be sure that it was where he thought it was, then lifted it over the top and moved it forwards. There was a second wire, no more than half a pace from the first, and fifty centimetres above the height of the girder.
He paused, again, standing stork-like as he thought. He couldn't easily put his other foot down again. He closed his eyes and pretended he was doing Tai Chi for a moment. When his heart rate had slowed a little, he raised his leg further and leaned forward. The roaring came and the girder seemed to thrum under him. Everything seemed about to spin dizzyingly away from him. But he told himself it was just his head and the air pressure. He leaned forward just enough that he could put his raised foot down clear of the second wire. He stood for a moment, front knee bent, straddling the second wire. Then he shifted his weight again, straightened his knee and brought his trailing foot up and over to join the first. He moved on.
There were more wires, but he negotiated them. One of them, a thick bundle of electrical cable, crackled and sparked, but he heard it before approaching. That one he did not even dare to touch with his foot to discover where it was. But he cleared it.
At fifty paces, he came to a place where the grip of his sneaker on the girder felt different. He scuffed his foot back and fro. It was definitely slippery. Someone had oiled the beam! That really wasn't playing fair.
He bent his front knee again, half kneeling, and felt for the beam with his fingers. Oil, definitely. He was grateful for the thick rubber soles of his new trainers, but he didn't want to trust his life to them. He stretched out and took a firm hold of the girder on either side. The girder was T-shaped, or rather like an H on its side, with a wide top surface and then narrower underneath. He could get his hands around the lip of the "T". It was only oiled on top; he could get a grip. He sat down on the beam, straddling it, gripping with his hands and pulled himself up, his bottom scooting over the oiled surface. His dislocated shoulder protested wildly again. But he kept at it. After a further four, maybe five paces, he reached the end of the slick. For caution, he shimmied up a bit further, before struggling back to his feet.
He found he was shivering with exertion. He had to wait for that to pass before carrying on.
At sixty-eight paces he passed the mouth of the fire, a luminous crimson disc visible even through the smoke and ash it was putting out. Blasts of hot air threatened to topple him, but he compensated and passed it by.
Above this the air began to cool a little, but the cloud became, if anything, blacker.
At eighty paces he started to feel he was nearly through. The cloud was still impenetrable, but it seemed a more grey kind of darkness now, and his throat burned less with each breath.
And then, just as he'd negotiated another trio of wire hazards, a flyer came bounding out of the miasma ahead of him. A young man, a kid really. Steven had time to make out some kind of respirator and goggles and a leather jacket before they collided and started to topple. Gravity and momentum kept the flyer falling forwards which meant Steven was going over onto his back. Only his acute spatial awareness saved them. With his bad arm he grabbed the young flyer about the waist, while he flung out his other and at the same time twisted them so that they fell across the three wires he'd just stepped over. He caught one wire with his free hand and tried to tangle his feet in another.
"Hang on!" he yelled, and was grateful that the young man instantly responded by grasping two of the wires himself.
For a long moment they hung there like a pair of flies awaiting the spider, wondering if the furiously vibrating wires were going to hold. Eventually the reverberations diminished enough that they began to think that they might.
The boy swore, at last letting out a long breath that hissed through his facemask. "You saved us!" He swore again, an abrupt syllable, not one Steven was familiar with, but the flyers' slang evolved at such a pace that didn't surprise him. It sounded like a mix of Han and something gutturally Anglo-Saxon.
"What…" Steven gasped for air, "what were you doing coming down here like that?"
"What was I doing?" Another use of the swear word. "What were you doing coming up? There wasn't any signal? Why didn't you set the signal?"
"Signal? Oh bloody hell." It had been too long since he'd done this; the ways had changed and he'd gotten old. "Bloody hell," he said again.
The boy cursed again too. He certainly wasn't inventive in his profanity, though it appeared the word could also be used as an adjective, and one applied to Steven. "You could have killed us both!" He reiterated his imprecation of Steven's person or character.
"Hey, hey, what happened to 'I just saved us'?"
The boy just repeated himself again and he started to struggle in Steven's grasp. Not wanting to fight him, Steven just let him go, shifting his hand to the wire to steady himself.
The boy gripped the top wire in both hands and, kicking off from Steven's stomach – deliberately, Steven was sure – performed a jump-flip that took him back onto the girder. With a last venomous repeat of his cuss spat Steven's way he scampered away into the deeper darkness.
Steven lay there entangled, winded and wounded. After a few moments he remembered the oil on the girder and instantly realised that it was way past too late to warn the boy flyer. He decided to try not to hear any sound of a scream, suddenly begun and tailing off as it fell away, emerging from the cloud below him. He decided to try very hard.
But then he had his own problems.
With a lurch, his bed of cable and wire suddenly went slack and he dropped a couple of metres before it caught his weight again. The bridge girder was now above him. He tried to reach up, but his dislocated shoulder wouldn't let him. The wires gave another lurch and he dropped another half metre.
"Oh bum," he thought. They're not going to hold after all.
Another cable came falling past his head. No, not a cable, a nylon climbing rope. There was a whizzing sound and someone came rappelling down the rope. A woman, with a pigtail flying. It could have been a man, he supposed, dizzily; the gas mask she was wearing was giving nothing away, but the tight halter top she had on left nothing to guesswork.
She stopped close above him and reached down. He stretched back up with his good arm and she caught him in an unbreakable grip around his wrist. He grasped her wrist in turn. Twisting her body she lifted him up so that he could reach the girder and scramble back on, at which point she released his arm. Then she flexed herself again, twisting in the air to set her rope swinging and landed on the bridge behind him.
It was a while longer before he could move again. But she was patient, and when he was ready they went up the last dozen paces together. Breaking clear of the cloud was almost as magical as the way that it clung, roiling, to its level was diabolical. It just stayed there, as though it had been set as a guard dog and ordered not to come onto the lawn.
Steven was under no such injunction and scrambled over the low wall of the roof garden and collapsed to his knees panting.
A couple of men in three-piece suits and silly top hats were smoking nasty little black cigarettes in the garden. They looked down at him disapprovingly. He didn't care and ignored them, looking instead for the one who'd saved him.
She was calmly coiling up her climbing rope. She'd pulled off her gasmask as soon as she'd hit the lawn, and immediately shoved it roughly into an oversized black rucksack – presumably hers – that had been waiting for her at the top of the last bridge. She was white, her heart-shaped face slightly older than he'd expected. She finished coiling the rope and stuffed it into the rucksack alongside the gasmask.
Without asking, she placed one knee firmly in his back, placed one hand on his shoulder and gripped his bad arm with the other, lifting it up to about two o'clock and slowly rotating it at the wrist while deftly pressing his scapula with her thumb. With what he imagined to be a pop his shoulder went back into the right place.
"Thanks," Steven managed to gasp.
She gave him a look.
"Well," she said, "you coming, then?"
