“I’m going to take us in as close as I can.” He turned to Matt. “If we get separated, meet at…”
But Matt didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. There was another burst of gunfire, this time strafing the stern and the cargo hold where the fireworks were packed.
“Now!”
Richard abandoned the wheel and the boat began to zigzag. Matt needed to ask him what he had just said, but everything was happening too quickly. Richard snatched up his backpack and forced it over his shoulders. Jamie was right next to him. The five police boats were getting closer, only a few metres behind.
“Go!” Richard shouted.
Jamie hurried out to the deck and without stopping disappeared over the side of the boat. But Richard hadn’t followed. He had climbed down from the cabin and was balancing himself, clinging to a handrail as Moon Moth, its engines screaming on full power, swerved drunkenly through the sea. Blood and water streamed down his face and his eyes were wild. Matt had never seen him like this before. Gritting his teeth, he brought the gun up and fired into the crates of fireworks, again and again, emptying the chamber into the same spot.
Nothing happened until the final shot. Then there was a flare of magnesium, burning through the tarpaulin. Richard noticed that Matt was still there, that he hadn’t jumped overboard. “Jump!” he pleaded.
Matt jumped.
Even as his feet left the deck, the fireworks went off. There were thousands of pounds worth in the hold. A tonne of gunpowder. But there was nothing beautiful about the explosion. It was just a blinding, burning wheel of fire that seemed to take Richard and hurl him into the air. That was the last thing Matt saw before he hit the water. For a moment everything was panic. The sea was black and freezing. He was still wearing his clothes and trainers. He was being sucked down. He had to fight with all his strength just to get back to the surface.
He emerged, gasping for air, into a brilliant, blazing nightmare. It was as if the whole night was on fire. Moon Moth was alight. The fire was burning so intensely that the metal plates would surely melt away. With no one to steer it, the boat had turned a full circle and was ploughing into the police launches, which had been too slow to get out of the way. It was right in the middle of them and Matt could just make out figures in helmets and full riot gear staring at the destruction, knowing that they were too close, that they were part of it. One of their boats was already on fire. The tall man was still howling – but this time in agony. Every part of him was on fire. His suit and the skin beneath it were peeling away. At the very end, his head split open and something began to snake out of it – a second head, but not a human one. Then there was a great rush of white flame as more of the fireworks exploded and he was blown out of sight.
Individual fireworks were going off, one after another and Matt saw cascades of red, blue, white, green and yellow as blazing missiles were shot into the air, reflecting in the water below. About fifty rockets screamed out at once, some of them twisting into the sky, others slamming into the police boats. One of them spluttered across the water and plunged down in front of him, missing his head by inches. He saw a policeman on fire, jumping into the water to save himself. Another was less lucky. He seemed to be holding a spinning Catherine wheel, unable to let go of it even though it was burning into his chest. Fireworks were cracking and buzzing and whining all around him. He didn’t make it into the sea. He died where he stood.
Matt was treading water, forcing himself to breathe. He was so cold that his lungs had shut down. He knew that he couldn’t stay out here much longer. Two of the police boats were undamaged. Very soon they would be looking for him. But where was Richard? Where was Jamie? The surface of the water was like a black mirror, reflecting the light, but he couldn’t see them anywhere. He wanted to shout out for them but he didn’t dare. The policemen would have heard him.
There was only one thing he could do. The edge of the water was about a hundred metres away. He had to get to dry land and hope to find them there. He took one last look and then turned round and began to swim, slowed down by his clothes. The glow from the flames spread out over his shoulders, helping to light the way, and there were more bangs and fizzes as the last fireworks went off. He heard someone shouting an order in Chinese but doubted that they’d seen him. He was wearing dark clothes. His hair was dark. The currents were carrying him away.
He reached land without even realizing it. Suddenly there was a slimy concrete slope under his knees. He crawled onto it and pulled himself out. He was on a building site. That was what it looked like. It was hard to tell as he squatted in the darkness, shivering, filthy water dripping out of his hair.
“Richard? Jamie?”
He didn’t dare call too loudly. The whole city – anyone who was awake – must have seen the firework display. The Old Ones knew he was there. They would already be searching.
“Richard? Jamie?”
There was no reply.
He waited ten minutes before he made a decision and set off, moving while he still could. If he stayed still much longer, he would freeze.
It was three o’clock in the morning. He had entered the enemy city. He had no idea where he was going. He was dripping wet. He was unarmed.
And he was alone.
NECROPOLIS
Leaving the water behind him, Matt made for the wall of light that defined the edge of Hong Kong. He came to a main road, empty at this time of the night, with a block of luxury hotels and shopping centres on the far side. The smog was worse than ever. The entire city reeked of it, like a chemical swamp. He had only been there for a few minutes but he already had a nagging headache and his eyes were smarting.
Where were Richard and Jamie? He had to find them. He was lost without them. Jamie had been the first off the boat and although Matt hadn’t seen Richard jump, he must surely have followed moments later. Like him, the two of them must have swum ashore – unless the police had managed to find them first. The thought of his friends in captivity sickened him.
He tried to shake off the sense of hopelessness. He had to work out what to do. Get in touch with the Triads. There were a thousand of them, waiting to help him, but the way things had turned out, it wasn’t going to be so easy after all. Han Shan-tung had given them a mobile with a direct dial. Richard had been carrying it. But it would have been made useless the moment it hit the water. And then there was Shan-tung’s son, Lohan. He would already know that something had gone wrong. Presumably his men would be searching for them all over the city.
But Matt had no way of contacting them. He remembered the address of the place where they were supposed to be going, a warehouse on the Salisbury Road. But that was on the other side of the harbour, in Kowloon. Matt had no map and no money. He was soaking wet. It was the middle of the night. How was he supposed to get there?
He was already finding it hard to walk. Every time his foot came down, his shoes squelched and he felt the water rise over his foot. His shirt and trousers were clinging to him, digging in under his arms and between his legs. As he crossed the road and passed between the first of the buildings, he wondered if it wasn’t a little warmer here than it had been in the harbour. But it was only a matter of degrees. He was soaked and shivering and if he didn’t want to catch pneumonia he was going to have to find a change of clothes.
He stopped. A man had appeared, coming towards him from round the corner of a building. At first Matt assumed he was drunk, on his way home from a late-night party. The man was wearing a crumpled suit with a tie hanging loosely from his neck, dragged round one side, and he was staggering. Matt thought about hiding but the man obviously had no interest in him. And he wasn’t drunk. He was ill. As he drew nearer, Matt saw that his suit was stained with huge sweat patches, and his face was a sickly white. He almost fell, propped himself against a lamppost, then threw up. Matt turned away, but not before he saw that whatever was coming out of his mouth was mixed with blood. The man was dying. He surely wouldn’t last the night.
S
lowly, the city began to reveal itself. Matt wasn’t completely on his own after all. There were street cleaners out, sweeping the pavements, their faces covered by white cloth masks. He saw security men sitting on their own in the neon glare behind the windows, only half awake as they counted the long minutes until dawn. He passed the entrance of a subway station, closed for the night, but there was a woman sitting on the steps, a vagrant, her whole body completely wrapped in old plastic bags. She saw him and laughed, her eyes staring, as if she knew something he didn’t. Then she began to cough, a dreadful racking sound. Matt hurried on.
An ambulance raced past, its siren off but its lights flashing, throwing livid blue shadows across the shop windows. It pulled in ahead of him and he saw that a small crowd had gathered round a man lying unconscious on the pavement. The ambulance doors were thrown open and two men climbed out, also wearing white masks. Nobody spoke. The man on the ground wasn’t moving. The ambulance men scooped him up like a sack of meat and threw him into the back. He was either dead or dying and they didn’t care. There were other bodies in the back, lots of them, piled up on top of one another. The ambulance men slammed the doors then got back in. A moment later, they drove away.
The city was huge, silent, threatening. It seemed to be entirely in the grip of the night, as if the morning would never come. Bald-headed mannequins in furs and diamonds stared out of the shop windows as Matt hurried past. Hundreds of gold and silver watches lay ticking quietly behind armour-plated glass. In the day, in the sunshine, Hong Kong might be a shopper’s paradise. But at three o’clock in the morning with the pollution rolling in and the inhabitants sick and dying in the streets, it was something close to hell.
They were looking for him.
He heard the sound of a car approaching and the very speed of it, the angry roar of the engine at this time of the night, told Matt that its journey was urgent and that he should get out of its way. Sure enough, just as he threw himself into a doorway, a police car shot past, immediately followed by a second, both of them heading the way he had just come. He knew that he had to get out of sight before any more arrived. He crossed another wide avenue and began climbing uphill.
And then he heard something coming through the darkness. It was the last thing he would have expected in a modern city and at first he thought he must be mistaken. The clatter of metal against concrete. Horse’s hooves…
A man appeared, riding a horse through a set of red traffic lights. The hooves were striking the surface of the road with that strange, unmistakable rhythm, and the echo was being trapped, thrown back and forth between shop windows. The horse paused under a street lamp and in the yellow glare, Matt saw that it was even more horrible than he had imagined. It was skeleton-thin and in an act of dreadful cruelty someone had driven a knife into its head, the blade pointing outwards, so that it looked like a grotesque version of a unicorn.
Matt saw it and remembered Jamie telling him about the fire riders who had taken part in the battle ten thousand years before. Was this one of them? As the man and the beast went past, he ducked behind a parked car, watching them in the wing mirror until they had disappeared from sight.
He was about to stand up, then froze as something huge fluttered through the darkness, high above the skyscrapers. Matt didn’t see what it was but guessed that it was some sort of giant bird, maybe even the condor that had been part of the Nazca Lines. It was there, a sweeping shadow, and then it had gone. He knew now that the whole city was possessed: the roads, the water, the very air. It could only be a matter of time before he was seen and captured. Every moment he was on the street he was in terrible danger.
He waited until he was sure there was no one around, then straightened up and hurried on his way, keeping close to the buildings so that he could throw himself into the shadows if anyone approached. He came to a junction. A car had swerved and crashed into a bollard. It was completely smashed up, its horn blaring. Matt could see the driver, half hanging out of the front door, pinned in place by his seat belt, his head and chest covered in blood. No one was coming to help.
A street sign. Matt looked up and read two words directly above him. Harcourt Road. The name meant something.
Paul Adams has returned to Wisdom Court… It is here, on Harcourt Road.
He remembered Han Shan-tung, talking to him in the study, pointing it out on the map. Suddenly he knew what he had to do. Somehow he had stumbled onto the right road. If Paul Adams was at the flat, maybe he would let him in. At the very least he would have somewhere to stay until the break of day.
“Help me…”
The man in the car wasn’t dead. His eyes, very white, had flicked open. He seemed to be crying, but the tears were blood. There was nothing Matt could do for him. He turned away and began to run.
The road seemed to go on for ever. Matt went past more shopping malls, a hospital, a huge conference centre. He didn’t see any more police cars but he heard them in the distance, their sirens slicing through the air. At one point, a taxi rushed past, zigzagging crazily, on the wrong side of the road. He turned a corner and came upon a tram, parked in front of an office building. It was an old-fashioned thing. Apart from the Chinese symbols, it was like something that might have driven through London during the Second World War. And it was full of people. They were just sitting there, slumped in their seats, unmoving. Matt didn’t know if they were alive or dead and he didn’t hang around to find out. He guessed they were a mix of both.
Somehow he found his way to Wisdom Court. He had only glanced at the map when he was in Macau and he’d got no more than an overview of the city. But there it was, suddenly in front of him, the name on a block of stone and behind it a driveway leading up to a fountain, a wide entrance and, on each side, a statue of a snarling lion. The building was very ordinary, shrouded in darkness, but there was one light burning on the twelfth floor – Matt counted the windows – and he thought he saw a curtain flicker as somebody moved behind.
The driveway hadn’t been swept. It was strewn with dead leaves and scraps of paper. The fountain had been turned off. As he walked up to the door, Matt got the feeling that the whole place, apart from that one room on the twelfth floor, might be deserted. There were no cars parked outside. He put his face against the glass door and looked into the reception area. It was empty. The door was locked but there was a panel of buttons next to it, more than a hundred of them, numbered but with no names.
Was this really a good idea? He stood there for a few seconds, cold and wet, and tried to work out his options. Han Shan-tung had suggested that Paul Adams might have been working with the Old Ones. He had been there when Scarlett was taken prisoner. But could he really have sentenced his own daughter to death? Surely not.
At the end of the day it didn’t make any difference if Matt trusted him or not. He was freezing. He had to get inside, off the street. He had nowhere else to go.
He began to ring the bells, one after another, beginning with 1200 and moving along, waiting briefly for each one to reply. There was silence until he reached 1213, then a crackle as a voice came over the intercom.
“Yes?”
“Mr Adams?”
“Who is this?”
“I know it’s very late, but I’m a friend of Scarlett’s. I wonder if I could talk to you.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Could you let me in?”
A pause. Then a buzz and the door opened.
As Matt walked into the reception area, he became aware of a stench – raw sewage. A pipe had burst. He could hear it dripping and the floor was wet underfoot. There was just enough light to make out a staircase leading up, but once he began to climb he had to feel his way in total darkness. He counted twelve floors, sliding his hand along the banister, pressing his shoulder against the wall as he turned each corner. It really was like being blind and he felt smothered, afraid that at any moment something would jump out and grab hold of him. But at last he arrived at a swing door, pushed it open and found himself at
the beginning of a long corridor. Light spilled out from an open door about half-way down. Scarlett’s father was waiting for him, but Matt couldn’t make him out because the light was behind him and he was in silhouette.
“Who are you?” Paul Adams called out.
“My name is Matt.”
“You’re a friend of Scarly’s?”
“I want to help her.”
“You can’t help her. You’re too late.”
Matt walked down the corridor, afraid that Paul Adams would go back in and close the door before he could reach him. But Adams waited for him. He reached the door and saw a small, unhappy man with grey hair and glasses. Scarlett’s father hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, nor had he washed. He was wearing a blue jersey which might have been expensive when he had bought it but now hung off him awkwardly, as if he had been sleeping in it. And he had been drinking. Matt could smell the alcohol on his breath and saw it in the eyes behind the glasses. They were red with exhaustion and self-pity.
“Mr Adams…” Matt began.
“I don’t know you.” Paul Adams looked at him blankly.
“I told you. My name is Matt.”
“You’re soaking wet.”
“Can I come in?”
Matt didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed his way past and entered the flat. The place was a mess. There were dirty plates stacked in the sink and on the kitchen counter. Everything smelled stale and airless with the sewage creeping up from below. It was as if someone had died there … or maybe it was the place itself that had died. Once it had been luxurious. Now it was sordid and sad.
Paul Adams closed the door. “Do you want something to eat?” he asked.
“I’d like some tea,” Matt said. The man didn’t move so he went into the kitchen and began to make it himself. He looked in the fridge for some food. There were only leftovers but he helped himself anyway. It was only now that he realized how hungry he was. A clock on the oven showed twenty past four. Six hours had passed since he had left Macau.
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