by Andy McNab
The receptionist didn’t look remotely interested in who’d just come up the stairs. In front of her were a phone, a little Post-it station and the laptop she was engrossed in; that was it. She was a fraction the wrong side of forty, with severely trimmed jet-black hair. She was even skinnier than Diminetz’s whippet, and wore a baggy blue dress that was probably designed to be snug. She didn’t move a muscle; even the Dr Scholls resting on the cross bar remained absolutely motionless.
I moved closer and realized she was busy watching the same soap as the women at the food stall.
She glanced up reluctantly. As the soundtrack swelled and her eyes returned to the screen, she held out one freakishly large hand. ‘You have money? Seven hundred dollar.’ Her other hand pulled open a drawer robotically and unlocked a small metal cash box. Her arms were so skinny they had veins on the outside. Maybe they used her for needle training.
‘Shouldn’t I be paying after you give me the blood?’
She wasn’t impressed. She snapped the box shut and gave the kind of sigh that wouldn’t have been out of place on the PRC’s answer to EastEnders. She closed the drawer, smacked her money hand back onto the desktop, and finally managed to wrench herself away from the drama. ‘You wait here.’
She opened the urine-coloured door about two inches and slipped through.
I headed for the dragon bench and sat down with my bags at my feet, like I was waiting for a bus.
She reappeared a few minutes later without saying a word, tapped away at the keyboard, and I had to listen to some old people arguing and a young couple sounding concerned all over again.
Ten minutes later the door opened. A woman emerged with a dressing on her left arm, and a pair of black eyes that had been on the receiving end of a good punch or two. She muttered to herself in hushed tones as she slipped away down the stairs. I assumed there had been a domestic and she’d wanted to stay away from the general hospital. I’d come to the right place.
The door opened again.
‘Hello. I’m Kim.’
He was very old and very grey, in a shiny brown polyester suit and shirt, a tie that matched the paintwork and the kind of haircut that I’d only ever seen on Boris Johnson. His face creased into a smile that was almost bigger than he was. Everything seemed out of proportion in this place.
He held the door open, ready to usher me through. I got up, leaving my bags where they were. She could have my jeans if she wanted them; a hundred hot washes wouldn’t get them to fit.
Kim beckoned me with a liver-spotted hand. ‘Come, come …’
His surgery was straight out of a 1950s TV drama: two wooden chairs; an old varnished table laden with papers held in place by a brass Buddha, who looked every bit as cheerful as his owner; a blood-pressure cuff and monitor; a half-empty cup of tea.
Three cabinets lined one wall. A green canvas screen stood beside a well-worn PVC-covered bench spewing disintegrated foam from each corner. A paper-towel dispenser on the wall provided a much-needed layer of protection for anyone brave enough to sit on it. The window boasted the same air-con / grimy-glass combo as the one in the reception room.
‘Please, please sit down.’ Kim went and sat the other side of the table, smile still in place. He waited for me to settle. ‘You want me to take blood, yes?’
‘Yes, I want a unit.’ I swivelled my left hand and pulled a not-quite-sure face. ‘That’s about a pint, yes?’
He nodded and beamed. ‘Yes, yes. A pint. But—’
I cut in. There were things I needed to know. ‘The unit would stay in good condition? I need it for three or four days, maybe longer.’
‘Of course, no problem.’ He waved away my concern. ‘Why do you want it?’
I shoved a finger into my mouth. ‘My wisdom teeth. They’ve got to come out. If I need a transfusion, I want to use my own, no one else’s. I hate the dentist. HIV, hepatitis – they worry me.’
He nodded and agreed and clearly didn’t believe a word. But what the fuck? Either he wanted my seven hundred dollars or he didn’t.
He leaned forward. ‘Your name, sir?’
‘Harry. Harry Redknapp.’
He didn’t look like a football fan.
‘OK, Mr Redknapp …’ He stood up and went over to one of the cabinets. As the door swung open, I saw a mass of giving sets. He came back with one in its sterile wrapping and a clear blood bag. These things were pre-prepared with Heparin or other anti-coagulating agents, depending on where they originated. Anti-coagulant was crucial to stop the blood decomposing. Additives like CPD (citrate phosphate dextrose) were also needed to keep the blood cells alive – which was why it was pointless drawing blood yourself: it would turn to jelly, stink like fuck within two days, and die.
I sat with my sweatshirt sleeve rolled up, arm resting on the table as he fastened the cuff. He gave it a couple of pumps to swell a vein, then snapped on a pair of clear rubber gloves, which I was sure had more to do with his protection than mine.
I didn’t much care either way. We were in business.
9
The cannula slid in nice and easy. Kim bent so close to me I got quite intimate with his perfumed hair oil. It was never going to be able to control the haystack sitting on his head, but it smelt OK.
He released the pressure, slid out the needle, uncapped the cannula and taped down the plastic tube now connecting my vein to the bag. The equipment was sterile and the bag was filling. That was all I needed to know.
Kim was well pleased. ‘Very good, Mr Redknapp. Seven hundred dollar very cheap, yes?’
‘An absolute bargain.’ I decided now was the time to take advantage of his relentless good humour. ‘Kim, I need some help.’
‘You all right, Mr Redknapp? You not feeling well?’
‘No, no. I’m fine. But I have a friend who’s very sick. He needs a new kidney. He’s in America and they don’t seem to be able to find a match. Do you know anyone who could help?’
His smile vanished long before I finished the sentence. ‘No, Mr Redknapp. No. Very bad … very … dangerous.’ He gripped my arm. ‘Tell your friend, please … very, very dangerous.’
I’d fucked up. He stood up, leaving the bag only about a quarter full, and headed for the door. Maybe he thought I was police, or some kind of investigative journalist.
He poked his head around the corner and gobbed off a series of instructions to the receptionist. He could have been ranting about me or asking for a weather forecast – I didn’t have a clue. I looked down. The bag was a third full. I wasn’t going anywhere fast.
He closed the door but didn’t sit down again: he busied himself binning the wrappings instead. He didn’t look like he was waiting for the heavies to arrive, but I glanced around the room for escape routes anyway. Old habits die hard. The bottom of the window was blocked by the air-con; the top by a solid pane. I eyed the Buddha. His base would fit neatly into my palm; the little fellow could head-butt someone, quickly and hard – in a Zen way, of course.
The door opened.
As Kim turned, I reached for my little brass mate. The robot appeared with a tray, a cast-iron teapot and two willow-pattern cups and saucers. She left as quickly as she’d arrived. Things were obviously hotting up on the soap front, or maybe she couldn’t stand the sight of blood.
Kim poured. ‘Milk, Mr Redknapp?’
I nodded, but wasn’t about to drink anything unless he did too.
‘Sugar?’ The smile was back in place. ‘Is very good. Good for your strength.’
We both ended up with milk and two sugars. I sipped the first cup of tea with condensed milk I’d had in years. By the time I’d finished it, the bag was full.
Kim started to disconnect me. He put a cotton-wool pad on the needle site, and encouraged me to press down on it. He bagged up the giving set and lobbed it into the bin with the mass of wrappers and packaging. He presented my still warm unit to me with a theatrical flourish.
‘Thank you, Kim. Thank you.’
‘No,
thank you, Mr Redknapp.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Seven hundred dollar. Pay there, pay there.’
I pulled out my wallet and peeled off the HKD, which found their way into the money-box and back in the drawer before I could blink. As I turned to pick up my bag, the receptionist stood up, leaned towards me, and whispered, ‘Kitty porn.’
I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about.
‘Kitty porn? You want kitty porn?’
‘Kitty porn?’
She frowned. ‘You police?’
‘No, I’m not police.’
‘You want donor? You want donor, yes? Kitty get you donor. She know many donor. All price – man, woman, all price. Kitty got them all.’
She held up a Post-it on which she’d scrawled a whole lot of numbers.
‘Kitty Porn. Four thousand dollar. Four thousand dollar.’ She glanced uneasily at Kim’s door.
‘Four hundred American dollars, OK?’ I wanted that phone number, but I didn’t have four thousand Hong Kong on me.
She didn’t hesitate. ‘OK.’
I tucked the blood sachet into my bag and fished out a fistful of my escape package money. She was right behind me: her bonus wasn’t going anywhere.
The deal was done.
‘You not police? No police?’
If I was, it was a bit fucking late now, wasn’t it?
‘No. Not police.’
I checked the Post-it: an eight-digit number, starting with a five. That meant it was a mobile, registered on Hong Kong Island.
I legged it back down the stairs, aiming for the JetCo ATM. I was clean out of ready cash; in this place, you always needed more.
10
The Upper House
I showered this time, worked my way through all the frou-frous and big fat towels and finally stretched out on the duvet in my bathrobe and towelling slippers. I tapped out a text to Anna. Going to bed now. Will call tomorrow. Hope you’re feeling better. xx
I dialled the number on the Post-it. It rang for what seemed like for ever. Maybe Kitty Porn had seen the number, not recognized it, and just fucked it off. Understandable – I did that myself. If it was important, they’d ring back – or try me some other way.
I expected an answering machine to kick in, but it didn’t. After another fifteen seconds or so a female voice snarled at me in Cantonese. This one was extra pissed off because it was so late.
‘Kitty? Kitty Porn? I was given your number.’
‘What you want?’ she snapped back, but at least it was in English. Sort of.
‘Are you Kitty?’
‘What you want?’
I kept it in slow-mo. ‘I was told you could help me find a donor.’
‘Donor? We not charity! Donor for what?’
It was pointless fucking about. ‘I’m looking for a kidney for someone.’
‘What your name?’ She’d calmed down a bit.
‘My name is Nick.’
‘Where you?’
‘I’m staying at the Upper House, on the island at—’
‘I know Upper House. Tomorrow you be outside on terrace. Ten in morning. You know terrace?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘OK. You be there. I find. You black man? White man?’
‘White. I’ll be wearing a white shirt and jeans.’
A click, then silence.
I lay there, suddenly too tired to bother getting under the duvet. I couldn’t even be arsed to move the iPhone off my chest or press the remote to close the blinds.
I shut my eyes.
My hair was still wet on the pillow when the iPhone vibrated. Anna’s reply flashed at me.
All good here. xx
Pity the ‘xx’ didn’t mean anything. I was getting to like them.
11
The Upper House
31 August 2011
10.17 hrs
In fact it wasn’t called the Terrace, it was called the Lawn. Why wouldn’t it be? It was on the sixth floor, up a ridiculously wide flight of steps lined with aromatic candles – all part of what they called ‘The Guest Experience’. The hotel had been created from the top thirteen storeys of a fifty-floor 1980s tower, which put the Lawn right up there among the high-rises. I’d wondered why my room – on the thirteenth floor – gave me vertigo.
Even though the sky was as grey as the waiters’ shirts, I could feel the sun on my neck and shoulders. But we were some way short of many of the buildings around us. The tops of their glass and steel towers were lost in the clouds. The ones I could look down on also had their own little gardens. With the city’s noise and chaos safely below us, it was Tranquillity Central up there – and in case you hadn’t got the message, the designer had gone all-out on the Zen. Pristine white stone and gravel separated stretches of lush grass; bean-bags the size of UFOs sprawled around umbrellas and tables. Where the humidity had encouraged last night’s rain to cling to the seats and stone pathways, it was simply vacuumed away.
The cream of the international business community had gathered there. Immaculately dressed and with freshly showered hair, they munched croissants and sipped rainbow-coloured juices or exotic blends of coffee as they scrolled their iPad Minis and tapped on their smartphones. I was the only punter on my own, and the only one looking like a tourist. I nursed my second cappuccino under an ivory-lacquered umbrella, wishing I’d bought some sun-gigs. But since the Upper House coffee cost nearly ten US dollars a throw, I thought I’d probably give the hotel shop a miss.
It was ten eighteen. In the last twenty minutes a couple of solo women had appeared at the top of the steps, but neither had given me a second glance before going to join her associates.
If Kitty or one of her sidekicks didn’t turn up, I’d hit a couple of medical centres, then head out to the airport to see if I could spot the riot of beige – or anyone else waving signs for East European arrivals.
Ten nineteen. I’d give it until half past, then make a move. You can always be twenty minutes late; anything more than thirty is no accident.
I hadn’t sent Anna a text or an email that morning; I didn’t want to wake her. If there had been a major drama, she would have got hold of me.
Ten twenty-five, and I signalled to the waitress that I wanted to sign my bill. A woman’s head emerged from the stairs. She flicked her shoulder-length black hair away from the mirrored aviators that covered half her face, and scanned the terrace. As the rest of her appeared I could see she wasn’t about to go the corporate route. Her blouse and blue jeans were skin tight and she had a bright red leather bag slung over her shoulder that was big enough to sleep in.
She spotted me immediately and tottered towards my umbrella in heels that were nearly the same height as she was.
‘You Nick?’ She sat down without waiting for me to answer or to finish getting up to shake her hand.
‘Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Iced tea?’
My new mate didn’t answer me, but gave the young waitress who materialized at her shoulder both barrels in Cantonese, then sent her on her way before I could ask for anything myself.
‘OK. What do you want?’
The small-talk was clearly over. She leaned forward, elbows draped over her denim-coated thighs, shoulders drooping, as if she’d already had a hard day. The handles of her bag were now locked in the crook of her arm.
The few wrinkles I could see behind her glasses matched the ones around her mouth. Her nails were perfectly manicured and polished dark red, but her hands said she’d seen worse days than this, for sure. A gold bracelet on her right wrist was meant to cover a crudely inked tattoo that might have been a fish or turtle. On the underside of her left a couple of laceration marks had aged and lightened against her darker skin. Her clothes and handbag might have been Prada, but that girl had come from somewhere else entirely.
‘Are you Kitty?’
‘Yes, Kitty. Yes, yes. What you want?’ She hadn’t bothered with Charm School; she was on a mission.
‘I need a kidney – for my
partner. She could travel here, anywhere.’
She shrugged. ‘How much money you got?’
I wasn’t playing hard to get, but I needed her to know that I wasn’t going to settle for something off the shelf. ‘It depends whether you can find what I need.’
12
I sat back as the waitress returned with a tomato juice. At least, it looked like tomato juice.
Kitty delved into her bag and took out a sleek gold case and matching lighter. She flipped back the lid, sparked up a slim cigarillo and treated me to a lungful or two of noxious smoke.
I leaned forward, and so did my distorted reflection in each of her lenses. There were more fingerprints on them than at most crime scenes. ‘My partner is Hispanic. She has chronic kidney disease, probably triggered by diabetes. I’m after a Hispanic kidney, from a living donor.’
‘Big shopping list.’ She took another drag, and when the smoke had cleared I could see that she had leaned forward too. ‘How much money you got?’
I gave her my best Buddha smile. ‘As much as it takes – so long as I get what I want.’
She smiled too, letting me know that her dental work didn’t match her designer labels. A scrape and a polish to strip back the nicotine would have been a good place to start.
Kitty removed a small strand of tobacco from her tongue with her thumb and forefinger and flicked it aside. Then she aimed her cigarillo at me, at almost point-blank range. ‘You want bespoke, you pay four hundred thousand dollar. You got that kind of money?’
I kept my gaze level. ‘What’s the point of money if my partner is dead?’
