“Good-bye, Janie.”
“Wait!” She was in tears, desperately swinging her lovely hair as she cast about. Her voice took on resolution. “I’m not going to let you! There must be a way!”
“But what?” I said, most sincerely brave and puzzled.
“I’ve got it!” She was so thrilled. “Algernon!” she said excitedly. “I’ll send you with Algernon!”
“Algernon?”
“Yes, of course! Macao! My husband’s firms partly finance that racing syndicate!
Advertising or something. Stay overseas, a week maybe, and Mr. Sheehan will have quite forgotten about your mistake with that painting.” My mistake? See the way they shift the blame? She drew me among the horrible glass cases. I went willingly, now she’d seen sense. “Quickly! I’ll send for a car, we’ll collect your things. You’ll catch Algernon at the airport.”
I almost fainted with relief. “I’ve got no things, love. The bailiffs.” But they’d given me an envelope with two dud checkbooks, driver’s license, and passport. Then I confessed, to clarify things even further, “I’ve no money, doowerlink. And think of the expense.”
“Lovejoy!” she said, kissing me fiercely. “I’m determined! Do you understand?”
About bloody time. “Yes, dearest,” I said humbly. At last I was heading for safety out of this whole mess.
An hour later, though overcome by nostalgia, I shrank down in the limousine rather than give a backward glance at the High Street, the shoppers, the distant green countryside to the town’s north. Janie’s driver headed us out on the A12 trunk road while she pretended a frosty boredom and secretly held my hand. My jacket bulged with a wadge of notes and travelers’ checks. I had no luggage, only an outdated pamphlet on Macao that Janie had grabbed in the money exchange. Not much to be leaving with, but if I stayed I’d have less.
3
« ^ »
ONCE upon a time, before a helpful lady ravished my chastity into extinction, I used to wonder about women. Even though at the time I was only a beardless wobbly-voiced sprog with vocal cords, for an alarming spell, unsure of their destiny.
The day after my virginity vanished—V-Day plus one, so to speak—it dawned on me that women are affected by men as much as we are by them. That is to say, women are the cause of almost all the world’s theories, which is why most theories aren’t worth a light. Like, I mean, if a theory’s any good, it ends its career and becomes fact, right?
Well, my own particular theory about women is that they’re constitutionally incapable of feeling appetites same as us. I’ve said it before, but don’t misunderstand me: they have their moments, but it’s all tangential stuff. They get peckish, but never quite reach that outermost pitch of actual hunger that we feel. They desire, but can’t absolutely lust. A bloke, now, is the exact opposite. When we crave, we can’t see, think, do anything else at all, for nothing matters until it’s gratified. That’s why women always seem so odd; their appetites are always in relative neutral. I just can’t understand the point of living in a state of less than maximum revs. Birds are really odd. You can’t tell them this, though. They won’t have it. They always say things like “Women feel love more than men,” which is a scream and only goes to show. It proves my point, because love isn’t a mere feeling, but there’s no telling women. Like talking to a brick wall. I have to mention this now because there might be no time later on, and in any case, it’s women that rule us, though they pretend the opposite. Hence I was fleeing from an unfair vendetta caused by Janie when I’d done nothing wrong and it was all her fault. See? In spite of everything, I like their company more than anyone else’s, but haven’t quite got the hang of why they all hate each other so. Still, that’s their problem.
Or so I thought. Hong Kong was to teach me very, very different to much of this.
At Heathrow Airport—“Thiefrow” to regulars—I bade a most sincere farewell to Janie, quickly reminded her to cable Algernon, and darted in to book a flight. I didn’t know it then but it was my nth mistake. I should have been tipped off by my reception at the booking desk, where a bonny girl shook her head.
“Macao, sir? There are no flights to Macao.”
“You’re mistaken, love. My friend’s just flown there. It’s in the Far East,” I offered helpfully.
“Hong Kong, sir. You change to a boat in Hong Kong.”
“Eh?” This was unnerving. She finally convinced me with a map and checked with cronies.
The second doom hint was catching sight of Toby the Motorman. He collects car keys left by bona fide travelers at the issue desk, nicks the cars and drives them to Wolverhampton to be resprayed for sale by his cousin. I should have been on the lookout for friends, those ultimate hazards, but was sure he hadn’t spotted me as I slid among the dispirited shambling crowds into the departure lounge to wait out the eight long hours.
Just like air terminals, all flights are a drag. When finally aboard, I was stuck in the umpteenth class next to a noisy kitchenette, which didn’t help. Why do designers let us down so? I’ve never yet seen a modern aerodrome that looked individual. Anonymity’s no hallmark. And as for airplanes, you might as well be inside a bog roll’s cardboard tube. I suppose things might improve if ever airships get going. Anyhow, in a stupor I left Heathrow—that plastic-chrome-polyethylene horror zone where refuse collectors shuffle forever among soiled tables—with relief. At least Big John Sheehan’s goons hadn’t outguessed me. Heading out of danger. I thought.
Flying’s a waste of traveling, I always find. You sit, eat plastic gunge until you’re stuffed as a duck. No wonder air hostesses call passengers “geese.” I was obedient, noshed my cubes when called upon, watched the films—endless car chases, crashes into piles of boxes, and knocking over that same weary old vegetable barrow before somebody confronts somebody in a warehouse shoot-out. All I can remember of the flight is that this bloke in the next seat bored me about Hong Kong. He called it Honkers.
“Honkers,” he said, in what I call an immediate voice, a posh drawl uttered loudly through a half-closed larynx. “Great. You’ll find it jolly pleasant, not cheap, messy, hellish hot.”
I waited for more. “Is that it?”
“Eh?” He dwelled for a second, then brightened. “No. It’s crowded too. Going on business?”
“Business?” My mind clicked: threadbare, disheveled, but traveling. “No. I’m, er, an artist.” Well, almost true. He was a lanky bloke with huge teeth and a prognathous jaw, a sandy-haired Hapsburg. He kept totting up numbers in a leather folder with matching everything.
“An artist, hey?” He was delighted. “Successful?”
I said modestly, “Just sold one to the National Gallery. I do antiques too.”
“Indeed.” He gave me a card. “That’s me. Del Goodman. Investment, sales. We’ve an antiques sale coming up in Honkers. Anything—buying, selling—give us a ring. Once knew an artist years ago. Nice chap…” I dozed fitfully as he prattled on and kiddies ran up and down the aisle.
Naturally, I was dreaming of finding antiques galore in Hong Kong—the eggshell porcelains that reached perfection in 1732; the bowls decorated in five colors by Tang, the greatest in all history, who represented fruits and flowers so naturalistically during Ch’ien Lung’s eighteenth-century reign.
My only artistry lately had been that Franz Unterberger. I slept because I could foresee no real problems now. Being thick helps optimism, because it’s unreliable stuff at the best of times. I’ve always found that…
The flight was forever, until at unbelievable last the stewardess woke me to strap in, the captain was yawning through some urgent announcement, and ships’ funnels and riding lights were sliding past the windows, frightening me to death.