The driver stopped in front of a wide flight of stairs which climbed up between two old-looking walls that had been painted yellow. The steps were decorated with a black and white mosaic and there were miniature palms growing in neat beds along the side. There were clumps of trees behind the walls. They were still in leaf, filling the sky and blocking out any sight of the shops and apartments. It was like walking through a park. The driver got out of the car and signalled for us to follow him. We grabbed our bags and went about half-way up the stairs until we came to a metal gate that swung open as we approached.
It wasn’t a park on the other side. It was a private garden with a courtyard, a marble fountain that had been switched off and, beyond, a really amazing house built in a Spanish style. The house was painted yellow, like the wall, with green shutters on the windows and a balcony on the first floor. It looked a bit like an embassy, somewhere you weren’t normally allowed. The house seemed to belong to its own world. It was right in the middle of Macau and yet somehow it was outside it.
“Quite a place,” Richard said.
The driver gestured and we went in.
The front door also opened as we walked towards it. A woman was waiting for us on the other side. She was some sort of servant, dressed in a long, black dress with a grey shirt buttoned up to the neck. She bowed and smiled.
“Welcome to the home of Mr Shan-tung. I hope you had a good journey. Please, will you come this way? I will take you to your rooms. Mr Shan-tung invites you to join him for dinner at eight o’clock.”
It was one of the most beautiful houses I had ever seen. Everything was very simple but somehow arranged for maximum effect so that a single vase on a shelf, sitting under a spotlight, somehow let you know that it was Ming or something and probably worth a million pounds. The floors were polished wood, the ceilings double height, the walls clean and white. As we went upstairs, we passed paintings by Chinese artists. They were very simple and clean and they probably cost a fortune too.
We all had bedrooms looking out over the garden, on the same floor; Jamie and me sharing, Richard on his own. The beds had already been turned down with sheets that looked brand new. There was a TV and a fridge filled with Coke and fruit juice. It was like being in a five star hotel, but (as Richard said) hopefully without the bill.
We were all dirty and tired after so much travelling and Jamie and I tossed a coin to see who got to shower first. I won and stood naked in a cubicle that would have been big enough to sleep in, with steaming water jetting at me from nine directions. There were towelling robes to put on when we came out. Jamie went next. He was asleep before he was even dry.
I would have liked to have slept.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the library that I visited. Did I make the right decision? I didn’t read the book and I’m beginning to wish I had. Right now I’m just a forty-five minute journey away from Hong Kong and I have no idea what I will find there. The book would have told me. It might have warned me not to go.
But it might also have told me when and how my life will end – and who would want to read that?
It makes me think of a computer game that I used to play when I was living in Ipswich. It was an adventure, a series of puzzles that took you through a whole set of different worlds. Shortly after I met Kelvin, he showed me how to download a cheat. It gave me all the answers. It took away the mystery. Suddenly I knew everything I wanted – but here’s the strange thing. I never played the game again. I just wasn’t interested.
Why did the Librarian show it to me? What was the point he was trying to make? And for that matter, who was he? He never even told me his name. When I think about it, the dreamworld really annoys me. It’s supposed to help us but all it ever gives us is puzzles and clues. I know that it’s important to what’s going to happen, that it’s there for a reason. One day, perhaps, I’ll find out what that reason is.
I’ve written enough. It’s twenty to eight. Time to wake Jamie and to meet our host. Han Shan-tung.
Hong Kong is waiting for us. It’s out there in the darkness, but I can feel it calling.
Very soon now, I will arrive.
MASTER OF THE MOUNTAIN
Han Shan-tung was one of the most impressive men Matt had ever seen. He was like a bronze Buddha in a Chinese temple. He had the same presence, the same sense of power. He wasn’t exactly fat but he was very solid, built like a Sumo wrestler. You could imagine him breaking every one of your fingers when you shook hands.
His hair was black. His face was round, with thick lips and hard, watchful eyes. He was elegantly dressed in a suit that was obviously expensive, possibly silk. His fingers, resting on the table in front of him, were manicured and he wore a slim, silver wedding ring. There was a packet of cigarettes and a gold lighter on the table next to him
… his one vice perhaps. But none of his guests was ever going to give him a lecture on smoking. Everything about the man, even the way he sat there – still and silent – suggested that he wasn’t someone to be argued with. He was someone who was used to being obeyed.
And yet his manner was pleasant enough. “Good evening,” he said. “Please come and sit down.” His English was perfect. Every word was well-modulated and precise.
He was sitting in the dining room, at the head of a long table that could have seated ten people but which had been laid for only four. The room was as elegant as the rest of the house, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto a wooden terrace and views of the garden beyond. Richard, Matt and Jamie took their places. At once, a door at the side slid open and two women appeared, pouring water and shaking out the napkins.
The man waited until they had gone. “My name is Han Shantung,” he announced.
“I’m Richard Cole.” Richard introduced himself, then the boys. He had already decided he was going to use the names that were on their passports. “This is Martin Hopkins. And Nicholas Helsey.”
“I would have said that this was Matthew Freeman and Jamie Tyler,” Shan-tung muttered. “And I would add that it is discourteous to lie to a man in his own home – but I will overlook it as I can understand that you are nervous. Let me assure you, Mr Cole. I know everything about all three of you. More, in fact, than you perhaps know about yourselves. Otherwise you would not be here.”
“And we know nothing about you,” Richard replied. “That’s why we have to be careful.”
“Very wise. Well, it will be my pleasure to enlighten you. But first we should eat.”
As if on cue, the two women returned, carrying plates of food. Silently, they laid out a Chinese dinner. It was a world apart from the sweet and sour, deep-fried grease balls that Matt had once purchased at his local takeaway in Ipswich. The dinner came in about a dozen china bowls – fish, meat, rice, noodles – and it had obviously been cooked by a world-class chef. Matt was glad to see that he had been provided with a spoon and fork. Han Shan-tung ate with chopsticks.
“I must apologize to you,” he began. There was no small talk. He didn’t ask them about their journey or what they thought of their rooms. “Urgent business took me to America. It was badly timed because it delayed your arrival here. And I’m afraid I have bad news. I had hoped that the object of your journey would have been sitting here with us tonight. I am referring to the girl, Lin Mo.” He continued quickly, before Richard could interrupt. “You call her Scarlett Adams. But I refer to her by the name she was given before she was adopted and taken to the West.”
“How do you know about Scarlett?” Richard asked.
Shan-tung leaned forward and plucked a prawn off one of the dishes. Despite his large hands, he used the chopsticks very delicately, like a scientist handling a specimen. “I know a great deal about the girl,” he replied. “The fact of the matter is that she was with my agents in Hong Kong only yesterday. I have spent a great deal of time and money – not to mention human life – trying to remove her from the city.”