Hungry Ghost

by Stephen Leather

  Donaldson had to turn sharp left for three yards or so and then right, into a small courtyard, surrounded by lush green plants. At the opposite side of the stone-flagged square was a small pool into which trickled water from the mouth of a stone lion set into the wall. Lily pads floated on the surface, moving gently around the dribble of water. Somewhere a frog croaked, but quietly, as if afraid to draw attention to itself. The pool was illuminated by three spotlights set into the wall and by a soft glow that came from large french windows that led into the house. Donaldson moved into the centre of the courtyard, sidestepping a brown-shelled snail that was meandering towards the water. From somewhere above his head a bird called into the night, a high-pitched whine that grew louder and deeper and then stopped, like incoming mortars in a war film. His right hand was tightly clenched around the strap of his shoulder bag, drenched in sweat. The heat, he told himself, ignoring the smell of fear that was pouring off him, the smell that dogs can scent and which raises their hackles and starts them growling and snarling. It was just the heat, thought Donaldson, just the heat. Christ, what are you doing here? asked a small voice inside, the voice of a threatened schoolboy. Howells is an animal. He ignored the whining voice and moved forward again, towards Pink Floyd and the window.

  He could see into the room now, the french window framing a scene of domestic bliss, a man and two girls. The three were sitting at the far end of the room around a small table, the man with his back to the window, the girls to his right and left. The man’s hair was tied back in a short ponytail by a rubber band, and his head bobbed forward and back as he spooned in food from a small bowl. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing faded jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up past the elbows. The girls could have been twins, pretty in a boyish way, giggling to each other and with the man as they ate. They both had pageboy hair cuts and seemed achingly young, with smooth and unlined skins and bright, wide eyes with dark, fluttering lashes. Occasionally, one or the other would reach out to touch the man, or to ladle rice into his bowl or hand him a piece of meat. They were talking, Donaldson could see their mouths moving, but the music drowned out the words. The girls wore simple flowered print cotton dresses, open at the neck but covering their arms. One wore a thin gold chain around her neck, but other than that Donaldson wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart. He found their boyishness over-poweringly provocative, but at the same time he was repelled by their obvious femininity. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow again. He replaced the wet square of linen and knocked gently against the glass with his knuckles.

  Whatever the psychologists had done to Howells, they hadn’t affected his reactions. In one smooth, flowing movement he’d replaced his bowl on the table, uncurled his legs and moved three paces to the side, away from the girls, side on to Donaldson but looking straight at him. Donaldson knew with a tight feeling in his stomach that if Howells had had a gun in his hand he’d have been dead. It was Howells, he was sure of that, but he’d changed. The face was thinner, and the soft beard and moustache were new. He’d lost weight, too. Not that Howells had ever been anything other than hard muscle, but now he looked almost emaciated. Donaldson could see his stomach was dead flat, and he had a marathon runner’s backside and legs. Howells spoke quickly to the girls and they slowly moved away from the table, away from him, worried frowns on their faces. Howells seemed to be looking through Donaldson with impassive hazel eyes and for a moment Donaldson wondered whether reflections meant he couldn’t see through the window. No, that couldn’t be right, there were lights outside. He reached out and knocked again.

  Howells walked forward slowly, balls of the feet touching the ground first, as if ready to spring at the slightest shock. He didn’t look like a former SBS officer, or a professional killer, more like a junkie itching for a fix, but there was something in his cat-like walk that was unnerving. The room was still filled with music, but Donaldson knew that Howells was moving silently.

  He stepped back as Howells slid the window open and Pink Floyd swelled out. Howells didn’t say anything, but he reached up and gently smoothed the underside of his chin with the back of his hand as he studied Donaldson. Donaldson’s bladder was suddenly heavy. His mind was whirling, wondering exactly what he should say. Hiya Geoff, remember me? Perhaps Mr Howells, I presume? How about ‘I’m sorry I must have the wrong address’ and then getting the hell out of here said the voice in his head. He coughed quietly, trying to clear his throat. How could his body be soaking in sweat while his mouth was so dry, he thought.

  ‘Geoff Howells?’ he said hesitantly.

  Howells nodded slowly, still stroking his beard.

  ‘Er – can I come in?’

  Howells said nothing.

  ‘Grey sent me,’ Donaldson added, almost as an afterthought. ‘From London,’ he continued lamely.

  Howells smiled, a lazy confident smile that revealed white, even teeth. It seemed like a real smile, the smile of a friend, not the plastic version of a used-car salesman. Donaldson immediately felt easier and relaxed. Howells stood to one side and opened the french window further.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, and Donaldson was surprised at how soft and gentle the voice was. ‘I’m afraid we don’t get many visitors.’

  Donaldson stepped over the threshold. He shivered as he passed Howells. Did he remember him? Probably not. Something to do with the brainwashing, maybe.

  The room was square, about twenty feet by twenty. To the left were two doors of a dark red wood that looked as if it would be warm to the touch. There was no aircon, though a fan set into the white-painted ceiling was doing its best to keep the air moving. The walls were white, dotted with framed prints of what looked like Balinese gods. Tasteful, thought Donaldson, but somehow sinister. They weren’t gods to help the unfortunate and protect the weak, they were vengeful gods who would kill and maim. Between the two doors was a large carved wooden chest with a big brass lock set into the front and a stack of newspapers and magazines on top. The furniture was made of the same red wood as the doors: a long, low sideboard, a bookcase full of paperbacks, and a rattan three-piece suite with cream coloured cushions. The girls were standing together behind one of the wooden chairs, holding hands and looking at Donaldson from lowered eyes. To their left was a racked stereo system, matt black and expensive with waist-high speakers. He jumped as the window thumped shut behind him. He turned to find Howells watching him with an amused smile on his face. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No,’ replied Donaldson. ‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’

  There was a sickly sweet smell in the air. Incense. It was coming from some sort of shrine set into the wall between the doors, a wooden box open at the front and painted a garish crimson. There were three sticks of incense smouldering away, and in front of them there seemed to be pieces of rotten fruit and a small garland of yellow flowers. Howells sat in one of the chairs and stretched his long legs out in front of him.

  Donaldson sat down on the settee and balanced his bag on his knees. That felt uncomfortable so he put it by his side. ‘Well,’ he said, and Howells raised his eyebrows.

  The album was almost finished, the second to last track, Brain Damage, and the words echoed through Donaldson’s head. ‘You raise the blade, you make the change, you rearrange me till I’m sane.’ Very apt, thought Donaldson, except that it hadn’t been a surgeon’s scalpel that had changed Howells’ personality, it had been deep hypnosis and drugs, and in his pocket he had the colour code sequence that would bring the old Howells back to life. Howells the sociopath. Howells the killer.

  ‘Well,’ said Donaldson again. How to start, that was the problem. Grey had been quite specific; first he was to check how effective the programming had been, before showing him the cards. But what the hell was he supposed to say? There’s a man we want you to kill? To eliminate? To terminate with extreme prejudice?

  The girls had grown bolder now and they scurried over to sit either side of Howells on the floo
r, looking up at him like adoring poodles. They were lovely. God, what must the young boys be like, thought Donaldson.

  ‘Could I speak to you in private?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ said Howells, and he spoke quickly to the girls in some sing-song language. They looked as if they’d been whipped but he smiled and said something else and they nodded excitedly and, holding hands again, went through the other door. Probably the bedroom, Donaldson decided.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Howells asked, gently stroking his beard and studying Donaldson with what appeared to be quiet amusement.

  Donaldson swallowed. ‘I think we met a couple of times in London. You probably don’t remember.’ The smell of incense seemed to be getting stronger, filling the air and threatening to choke him.

  ‘And you say Grey sent you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Donaldson replied, and then cleared his throat noisily. ‘Do you remember him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I have a message from him.’

  ‘Well?’

  Donaldson was confused. ‘Well what?’

  ‘What is the message?’ Howells asked patiently.

  ‘He wants you to work for him again.’

  ‘Like before?’

  Donaldson nodded. ‘Exactly.’

  Howells looked pained. He slid down the chair and rested his neck on the cushion, looking up at the ceiling. ‘I don’t do that sort of thing any more.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘You know what I mean. I’m different now. I’m a Buddhist.’ He fell silent for a few minutes, eyes closed. ‘I can’t do it. It’s a part of my life that I’d rather forget. I just can’t kill any more. I’m practically a vegetarian.’

  Donaldson reached for his bag, and unzipped it. ‘Grey asked me to give you something, he said it might make you change your mind.’

  ‘Nothing can do that. Go back and tell him, thanks, but no thanks.’

  Donaldson’s hand groped around the bag like an inquisitive ferret until he located the two sealed envelopes Grey had given him back in England. The thicker of the two he left on top of the bag and he tore the other open. Inside, as Grey had said, were three coloured cards the size of beer-mats: one was lime green, one blue with a yellowish hue, and the third was a sort of silvery beige, but it seemed to change colour the longer you looked at it. On the back of each card was a number: 1, 2 and 3 in blue ballpoint.

  ‘Grey said I was to show you these,’ said Donaldson, getting to his feet. He stood in front of Howells, the cards in his hand, like a conjuror preparing to perform. With a weary sigh Howells raised an arm and took the card with number one written on the back.

  ‘What is this supposed to be?’ he asked, squinting at the green card. He turned it over and examined the number. Donaldson licked his upper lip and handed down card number two, the blue one. Howells frowned, and forced himself into a more upright sitting position, confused rather than worried. He shrugged and made to give them back to Donaldson.

  ‘There’s one more,’ he said, and handed it down.

  Donaldson wasn’t sure what he expected to happen, though he’d played the scene through his mind time and time again on the journey from Heathrow. A minor epileptic fit, maybe, fluttering of the eyes, fainting, the look of a sleeper awakening, maybe a confused ‘Where am I? Who am I?’ Howells was a big disappointment; he did none of those things. His frown deepened, he examined all three cards again, turned them over and handed them back.

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean? Is it some sort of code?’

  Now it was Donaldson’s turn to be confused. What had gone wrong? He checked the cards, confirmed that he’d passed them over in the correct order, and put them back into the envelope.

  ‘Do you feel any different?’

  Howells snorted, the sound of a cat sneezing.

  Donaldson shook his head, trying in vain to clear away the thick smell of burning perfume. He weighed the second, bulkier, envelope in his hands and wondered whether it was worth giving it to Howells. The experiment had obviously failed dismally. Whatever Howells had been like before he now had the killer instincts of a pet rabbit. He dropped the sealed envelope on to the knees of the sitting man and walked dejectedly back to his own seat.

  ‘What is it?’ Howells asked.

  ‘It’s a letter. From Grey. My orders were to show you the cards and pass that envelope on to you.’

  ‘Mission completed,’ said Howells, opening the envelope.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Donaldson. He watched Howells take out a sheaf of papers and what looked like a wad of currency. Howells sat and read in silence, once raising his eyebrows and snorting again.

  ‘I suppose I’d better be going,’ said Donaldson. ‘Can I call a taxi from here?’

  Howells shook his head without taking his eyes from the papers. ‘No telephone,’ he said. ‘Let me finish this and I’ll run you into town.’

  Donaldson settled back into his chair, toying with the strap of his travel bag. Eventually Howells finished. He refolded the papers and replaced them in the envelope and placed it, and the money, on the table alongside the remains of the meal.

  ‘Very interesting,’ he said. ‘And Grey expects me to do this for him?’ He got to his feet, shaking his arms by his side as if restoring the circulation to cramped limbs. ‘The callous bastard doesn’t change, does he?’

  Donaldson smiled nervously. ‘He doesn’t, but I think he expected you to have.’ He stood up and slung the bag over his shoulder. ‘Have you got a car?’

  ‘A jeep, round the back.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you.’

  Howells smiled and stepped forward, his right arm swinging quickly sideways and then twisting up, fingers curled back so that the heel of the hand made contact first, shearing off the cartilage that was Donaldson’s nose and driving it into the centre of the man’s brain. His legs gave way and he slumped to the floor, a trickle of blood running down his chin. It was a good clean kill, thought Howells, a move he’d practised ten thousand times but never used, until today. He felt a glow of satisfaction at how easy it had been, the feel of the nose breaking, the speed of the blow, the fact that Donaldson hadn’t had time to react or to make a sound. As he looked down at the body the glow turned into something else, something almost sexual, a shiver that ran down his backbone making him gasp. Like an orgasm. Only better. Howells wished he had more time, time to play, to prolong it, but the girls were in the bedroom and he didn’t want to disturb them. The tremor of enjoyment passed, as it always did, leaving him with a sense of loss, an itch that he wanted to scratch again. He opened the chest, hefted the body on to his shoulder and dropped it in. Later, when the girls were asleep, he’d bury it. But first, he was hungry. He wanted a steak, a thick one, medium-rare. It had been a long time.

  The road that Howells drove along to the airport was quieter than when Donaldson had arrived. It was light, but only just, and his jeep was the only vehicle to be seen. Hardly surprising, it was 4.30 in the morning, two hours before his flight was due to leave for Hong Kong. The rice fields were deserted, criss-crossed with lines of string to keep the birds away. Every hundred yards or so were small wooden platforms under roofs of reeds where farmworkers could shelter from the hot sun. The strings ran from platform to platform so that they could be pulled from the shade but at this time of the morning there were no sudden movements, just gentle swings in the wind. The wind blew through tin cans nailed to wooden posts making an unearthly wailing noise, another way of keeping the birds at bay.

  It was three days since he’d killed Donaldson, now safely buried three feet below the courtyard, close to the pool. Howells had sent the two girls back to their village, promising them that he’d return in a few days and knowing it wasn’t true. It felt good to be working again, to be following orders, to be able to use his initiative and his skills. He felt free. He stroked his chin, enjoying the feel of the bare skin now that he’d shaved off the beard and moustache. His hair was still longer than he li
ked, but he’d change that when he got to Hong Kong.

  He’d been to Hong Kong twice before, but both times en route to other destinations. He’d never worked there, just visited a few bars and toured the shops. He remembered buying a camera there, a Pentax, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what had happened to it. Not that it mattered any more. Howells began whistling to himself quietly, his face a picture of contentment.

  In his back pocket was the envelope from Grey that Donaldson had so faithfully delivered. It contained two photographs of a man called Simon Ng, three closely typed sheets of background information on him and ten thousand American dollars in large bills. Slightly less actually, because he’d used some of the cash to buy a ticket to Hong Kong. A one-way ticket.

  Howells started smiling as he whistled, and the smile quickly widened into a grin. He began laughing out loud, an unnerving, disjointed sound.

  It was eight o’clock in the morning when the QE2 dropped its anchor above Patrick Dugan’s head. That’s what it sounded like anyway. The rattle of metal links against hard wood went on for twenty seconds or so and then stopped dead. God knows what they were doing, but whatever it was they did it every morning. And last thing at night it was furniture-moving, or footsteps, or the shower running. And sometimes it was at three or four o’clock in the morning. But always the anchor dropped at eight, on the dot. Dugan groaned and stuck his head under the pillow. He felt, rather than heard, the sound of lift doors closing several floors below him and knew that he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.

  His block was twenty-eight storeys high, and there were eight flats on each floor. If each flat had a average of one point five wage-earners, and most had two or three, then that meant 336 people would be leaving for work of a morning. And assuming they all left between 7.30 a.m. and 9.30 a.m., that meant an average of one every twenty seconds or so. And each departing resident meant a lift door opening and closing twice. There was no way he’d get back to sleep, not with the noise and the sun streaming in through the bedroom window.