I nodded, and in turning to retrace my steps, spotted the row of painted figurines on top of the temple wall. Halfway along, the cartoonish plaster representation of a pink-faced colonial officer stood sentry, as he had done for over seventy years. My grandfather peered through the smoke, over the top of the blossomed copse, towards the remnants of his dream house, waiting, always waiting.
KUALA LUMPUR TO LONDON
10th May, 1996
The dull throb of the Jumbo’s engines weaves a brain-fog from which emerges the spectral outline of Detective Quinn. While others had accepted the coincidence of water twice smudging the certainties of death-scene science, she harbours suspicions that this is my modus operandi. I had both motive and opportunity; I must be implicated. And, as I spin the tuning knob in my head, searching the frequency for sleep, my eyes gritty and squeezed shut, her phantom presence forces me to confess one truth, that I have withheld even from myself.
Perhaps, even while I have been in Malaysia, D C Quinn has been scrutinising my telephone records and has discovered that I made a call to Sammy Lee. I imagine she will have read much into the fact that it is dated after Mick had been persuaded to make his will in my favour. She will drive a wedge in the gap between fact and this undeclared truth. The call was merely to check that Mick would be safe when he went to Ipoh again, but her certainty will plant doubt in my mind.
In the face of her circumstantial evidence, after relentless questioning and near-tortuous levels of sleep deprivation, I will admit that, in the meeting that followed the call, I connived with the mob side of the Lee family to kill my only cousin, my only friend. From there she will cast doubt on how my mother died. New truths will emerge. Guilt piles on guilt.
Like Robert De Niro’s character, Noodles, in the final scene of the film Once Upon a Time in America, I need strong dope if sleep is to come and wipe away the strife, the mistakes that have sentenced me to suffer the innocent’s dread of unwarranted discovery. No ordinary daydream scenario can lead me step by step down into the soft-cushioned cellar room of sleep.
I sketch out a new storyboard: I will sell the cinema to a property developer. The funds from it, the sale of Mick’s flat and his micturition money will be more than enough to start a new venture.
Take one: As I once vowed I would, I have returned to Lisbon and made a home there. I have immersed myself in its lifestyle and its music. After spending the evening at a Fado bar, I stand on my night-time terrace, nightcap sherry in hand, and scan over the roofs searching out the mercury band of the river. Warm, dusty eddies of laughter and bantering conversation waft up from the streets below. They share the clamour of revellers; I am alone.
The scene fades. ‘Alone’ doesn’t work anymore. Anyway, Lisbon was only temporarily the natural sequel to what went before. If this dream-catcher is to work, it must be about family and this means the castle. My father bequeathed me its romantic story and it is the key to my future.
Screwing up my eyes, I dive into the deepest reaches of my imagination. I surface with a new storyboard.
Take two: I am sitting on the first-floor veranda of a modern property, ice clinking in a cut-glass tumbler containing gin, tonic and a twist of lemon. The distinctive, juniper and quinine fizzes in my nostrils. I look out towards a tropical sunset. To my right are the earthworks that signify that an eighteen-hole championship golf course is in development. To my left Kellie’s Castle Spa Hotel and Country Club is bustling with activity. The hardened sun-worshippers catching the last of the rays are still by the pool. Most of the guests are in their rooms preparing for dinner. My money has made this happen.
But still I fail to slip away. It needs more. I screw my face down into the pillow. If the next one doesn’t work I might as well give up and watch a movie.
My destiny is in my hands. I am ready to step into Mick’s shoes. Not in a Talented Mr Ripley way, but by commandeering the future that was to be his. How easy it would be for Nancy Lee and me to become close during the time we spend together planning and building the hotel.
Take three: I am sitting on the first-floor veranda with a view across the hotel complex towards the golf course. Nancy, my wife, is beside me. We are waiting to be summoned to the dining table where we will be attended by the house staff. Our children, Michael and Louise, are in the nursery. The nanny is in the room next to theirs.
I am marvelling at how fate has brought us together. ‘Do ever think about Mick, Nancy?’
She chinks her glass against mine and takes a sip before responding. ‘I loved Mick. I do think of him. But everything I felt for him I feel for you and more.’ She stands up, takes my hand and leads me to the railing. ‘Look at all this. You should be very proud. It would not have happened without you.’
Nuzzling my lips against her bare neck, I say, ‘It means nothing to me without you and the children – my family.’
She spins round slowly, still enfolded in my embrace. We kiss.
This scene is working. I am teetering on the precipice of oblivion. A member of the cabin staff passing now would look down at me and see that my face is split wide by a dopey-grin gash as if I’m floating in the arms of Morpheus like a junkie in a Chinatown opium den; the pipe’s harsh, kind smoke thick in my lungs.
In my last residue of wakefulness, in the nanosecond that is the present, I happen upon a significant conclusion. Yes, the past is over. It is recorded on ticker tape – immutable, reviewable, open only to interpretation. The future, on the other hand, is elastic. It can stretch to anything, even a Hollywood ending.
Author's note
The author visited Kellie’s Castle near Batu Gajah in the Malaysian state of Perak, at about the same time as Luis Escobar’s fictional visit in this novel. The romantic story of the castle’s builder, William Kellie-Smith, was written in English on a weathered notice board in the car park. There was nothing to say who owned it.
Internet research infers that a private company has acquired Kellie’s Castle. It has made the fabric of the building safe and opened it to the public. Visitors can read about the house’s history and see various exhibits that show how it might have looked had it been completed.
It is a popular tourist attraction with thousands of visitors every year. The tunnels were excavated but appear to have been dead ends. There never was a Rolls Royce.
There are reports that the castle is haunted by William Kellie-Smith who is desperate for it to be completed so that it can be lived in by any of his descendants that may yet be found.
Acknowledgements
Novel writing is mostly a thankless business, especially as I spend my writing life unnoticed by the literary establishment. So I would like to take this opportunity to thank the friends, family and strangers who continue to motivate me with their encouragement and positive responses to my work. My family, bless them, are uncritical and unwavering in their acceptance that this is the way I choose to spend my time and their money.
Among my friends, I have to mention specifically fellow scribe Bruce Johns who, despite operating in a higher orbit of our ‘craft’, is ceaselessly enthusiastic about my workaday efforts. As is customary, Valerie was first reader for this manuscript with Linda Gallagher and Chris Smith both seeing early drafts. It has benefited from their insightful comments.
In terms of professional editing, I must first mention Hadyn Middleton of Writers’ Workshop whose devastating critique of an earlier version of Steve Cross’s story ensured that it morphed into this work which reads better than it did and should be error-free thanks to direction and suggestions from Anna Johnson.
During my research, I visited Lisbon and was fortunate enough to stay in Tiago’s apartment where one passes through a Hobbit doorway onto a unique rooftop terrace with its view over the city’s rooftops. Tiago introduced us to the Restaurante Devagar Devagarinho where our Fado experience was the template for the fictional one that Luis and Steve enjoyed. My main purpose of going to Lisbon was to visit the British Cemetery and thanks are due to And
rew Swinnerton there for helping me find the grave of William Kellie Smith.
Patricia Borlenghi, the driving force behind Patrician Press, has been a generous friend and meticulous publisher. None of this would have happened without her. Thanks to David Janes for the cover design, based on original artwork for the Chinatown film poster by Richard Amsel. The illustration of Kellie’s Castle is by Charles Johnson.
I’m sure that I’ve omitted people I should have thanked and I apologise to them. Apologies also to you, the reader, for any errors of fact or in syntax, spelling or production that have survived the publishing process; the buck stops with me.
Finally a note about inspiration. This is the second of my novels inspired by films; this one the timeless classic Chinatown. As well as starting with the intention of purloining its final words, I have tried to borrow from the film its spirit of beguiling duplicity. This is why the book ends with a scene that mirrors the end of another classic movie, Once Upon a Time in America; De Niro’s manic smile undermines everything that went before. As Jack Nicholson playing Jake Gittes says, ‘In Chinatown, you can’t always tell what’s going on.’
Once upon a time in Chinatown Page 28
