A Cursed Place

by Peter Hanington

  ‘Big mistake.’

  Carver’s muttered remark carried further than he’d intended. It reached the ears of their guest, who responded with a taut smile; the people sitting either side of William shuffled away from him. To her credit, Elizabeth Curepipe regained her composure in an instant and won the room back round in no time.

  ‘Well, I know I’m bored of hearing me speak so I’m pretty sure you must be …’ It was now or never, so therefore it had to be now. Carver put his hand on his neighbour’s shoulder and pushed himself up on to his feet.

  ‘Three point five million pounds.’

  Elizabeth Curepipe raised her eyebrows and located William at the far end of the room.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your UK operation paid three point five million pounds in tax last year. That’s nought point three per cent of profits.’ He paused. ‘It’s not very much is it?’ In an instant, Drice was at her side, doing his human shield impression.

  ‘That tax settlement was agreed by the revenue and is absolutely above board.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of tax evasion, Mr Drice. I’m just pointing out that it’s not very much money, is it? And I was asking the organ grinder. Not you.’

  ‘How dare …’

  ‘It’s okay Julian.’ Elizabeth Curepipe pushed Drice gently aside. ‘It doesn’t sound like very much, you’re absolutely right Mr Carver …’ William felt himself temporarily thrown – how come she knew his name? Had she memorised the name of every person in the room? ‘… so I think I’m going to take a look at that and see what’s going on there.’

  ‘Er … you’re going to take a look?’ was the best he could manage.

  ‘Yes, I will. The BBC is one of the most respected news organisations in the world, as far as I’m concerned, if we want to work with you, we have to match that standard, not just meet the minimum legal requirement. That will apply to everything we do, for as long as we’re working together. You have my word on that, is that okay with you?’

  Carver nodded.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  She turned her attention back to the whole room.

  ‘I think what we’re proposing here will be pretty darn good for everyone involved. But of course …’ Another smile. ‘… it will be up to you to decide. For my part, I hope we can make it work, because I just can’t wait to be working with such a committed and talented bunch of Brits.’ There was laughter, then enthusiastic applause. Quite a few among the audience would undoubtedly have laid down palm fronds, if they’d happened to have them on them. Elizabeth Curepipe shook some more hands on her way out before pausing at the door and nodding graciously before Drice and the rest of her entourage ushered her away.

  Carver was the last out of the room. The glass box had felt like a sauna for the last half of the meeting and William’s hair was stuck to his head with sweat, his glasses slightly misted. Naomi was waiting for him outside.

  ‘That was quite a performance.’

  Carver looked slightly abashed.

  ‘Well, I felt someone had to say something.’

  Naomi smiled.

  ‘Not you, William. Her.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I mean, she’s impressive and all that.’

  ‘She certainly is.’ His old boss paused. ‘Interesting that she knows your name – don’t you think?’ Carver turned and glanced at Naomi.

  ‘Yeah, have you got any idea what that might mean?’

  ‘Well, I guess it means that you’re very lucky.’ Naomi patted Carver on the arm. ‘Either that … or you’re toast.’

  23 Partners

  THE STAR FERRY TERMINAL, HARBOURSIDE, HONG KONG

  The number and size of different demonstrations taking place simultaneously across Hong Kong was growing fast. Admiralty, Causeway Bay and Mong Kok had all been affected, and as the scale of the protests grew, so the story had moved up the international news agenda, from mid table to headline news. Running the BBC operation in Hong Kong was like being in charge of a three-ring circus and Vivian Fox was the ringmaster. Her work schedule was punishing and she’d had to call on John Brandon to do more telly work. It meant that Patrick had to spend more time than he wanted down near the harbour, hanging around by the growing line of TV broadcast points waiting for Brandon. The row of arc lit, smart-suited anchor men and women from every corner of the developed world, talking earnestly into the camera in a dozen different languages, was something to see, but it wasn’t where the story was. His editor, Naomi, had called from London asking Patrick to look into these rumours that triad gangs were being hired or bribed to beat up groups of student protestors. He also needed some time to read through the bundle of faxed documents that McCluskey had sent him and he wanted to do it in the privacy of his hotel room. He checked his watch and waved again in Viv’s direction.

  She’d got a good-sized spot for the BBC gantry, sandwiched in between Al Jazeera and CNN. He watched her talking John Brandon and a burly-looking local cameraman through a list of times and broadcasting commitments. When the camera guy tried and completely failed to repeat what he’d just been told, Viv lifted up her red clipboard and pretended to bash him on the head.

  ‘Let’s go through it once more, then John you can do the World Service hit solo while I go find out how much of your time radio boy needs and when.’ She went through the complicated grid of two-ways and bulletin pieces once more and left them staring at the clipboard while she came bouncing down the gantry steps and striding over to Patrick. She was wearing her professional get-up of boots, cargo pants and a blue linen shirt and had an apologetic look on her face. ‘I’m going to need Brandon a while longer, Patrick. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I understand. I can make do without him for a while longer.’

  ‘They’re flying another reporter out late today. Thanks for being such a sweetheart about this.’

  Patrick shook his head.

  ‘I actually get more done when he’s not with me. People talk to me more easily than they do when I’m with him.’

  Viv smiled.

  ‘That’s because you’re a bee charmer …’ she glanced back in Brandon’s direction and gave him the thumbs up, ‘… whereas John’s an insufferable bore.’

  ‘I hope he can’t lip read.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. He has trouble hearing what I’m saying when I’m standing right in front of him, talking straight at him. He told me yesterday that he thinks it’s got something to do with the pitch of my voice.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Your high lady-voice.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You’re in a good mood. Given the general chaos, I mean.’

  She grinned and pushed a strand of dark hair back behind her ear.

  ‘That’ll be because I’ve got a date.’

  ‘A date?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t judge. The only other date I’ve had this year came stuffed with almond paste.’

  ‘Morocco?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I had some of those, they were delicious.’

  ‘They were fine as far as they went.’

  ‘So, who’s your date with …’ Patrick shook his head, ‘… not Colorado Dan?’

  She frowned.

  ‘Yes Dan, why not Dan? It’s Dan Staples by the way.’

  ‘I know. I checked him out.’

  Viv laughed.

  ‘Me too. He’s got his own Wikipedia page!’

  ‘Yeah, I think I was a little less impressed with that than you appear to be …’ Patrick shrugged. ‘But he seems like an okay enough guy.’

  ‘He does, doesn’t he?’

  ‘He’s keen to please, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You know, I think it’s only us Brits who consider that to be a character fault.’

  Patrick smiled. It was a fair point. Colorado Dan had done everything he could to get along and fit in with what could be a rather closed and cosy circle. ‘Anyway, he asked me out and I thought why not? I’ve been hanging out with you lot so long, pre
tending to be one of the lads. Most of the time I think you actually forget I’m a woman.’

  ‘You’re a what?’

  ‘Shut up.’ She punched Patrick on the arm and smiled. ‘Anyway I’m going out with him later …’ She paused. ‘… but you’ve got him first.’

  ‘I’ve got him? What’re you talking about?’

  ‘BBC security have raised the risk level after those kids got beaten up in Mong Kok. If you’re going to go cover the demos then you need to travel in pairs.’

  ‘And Dan is my pair?’

  ‘Well, you can’t have Brandon and Dan offered. He worked as a nightclub bouncer to make some money when he was back in college and he’s … well …’

  ‘A bit bigger than me.’

  Viv gave a broad smile.

  ‘Just a little bit. You’ve got the brains and he’s got the brawn. You’ve got to admit, partnering you two up does make sense.’ Partnering up sounded more like Dan’s language than Viv’s ‘And the truth is I don’t have anyone else to give you.’ Patrick mulled it over. There were advantages to Viv’s plan, the most attractive being that he could gather the material more quickly and finish earlier if he went with Dan. Viv watched him weigh it up. ‘You can go solo and I’ll pretend we never spoke if you want … but you’d be doing me a favour too.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘You can do a little investigative work on my behalf.’ She poked at Patrick’s chest with her finger. ‘Make sure his intentions are honourable. Or … honourable-ish.’

  Patrick smiled.

  ‘Fine. Where is he?’

  ‘Good question. He seems to have gone AWOL, I’ll message him again now.’

  It had been raining on and off for most of the day. One of Eric Fung’s more practical comrades had attached a bright bouquet of long-handled golfing umbrellas to the stepladders that he was standing on. He had a megaphone in his hand and was taking his turn at leading the crowd in the now-familiar series of call and response chants. Alternating between English and Cantonese, Eric would ask his fellow protestors what they wanted and the students would reply with a variety of demands – universal suffrage, the sacking of the Chief Executive, an end to police brutality and so on. Now and then the riot gear-clad cops on the other side of the barricades would try to drown out this noise with announcements of their own, warning of more tear gas or mass arrests unless the demonstrators dispersed. These warnings had little effect; both sides were well dug in and Eric simply waited for the police commander to finish barking his threats before leading the crowd again in another round of chanting. He was beginning to lose his voice and when one of his fellow protestors offered to take over, Eric passed her the megaphone willingly. He stepped down gingerly from the rain-soaked ladder and looked skywards; the clouds were clearing and there were even a few patches of blue. This was good news, but Eric wasn’t in the right mood to take much comfort; his mind was elsewhere. Sammy had been gone too long; he’d set off like a greyhound out of the traps and the address where Eric had sent him to fetch the new phone was only half an hour’s walk at a steady pace. It was almost three hours since he’d left. Friends had messaged him on Eric’s behalf but so far nothing …

  Viv arranged for Patrick to rendezvous with Colorado Dan at an internet café on the Lung Wo Road. They could walk from there to Harcourt Road and the heart of the demo. Dan arrived bang on time, showered and shaved, wearing what looked like freshly ironed camo pants and white shirt along with his black Kevlar press jacket. He had a neat little backpack slung casually over his shoulder. Patrick was reminded of the Action Man dolls he used to get at birthdays and Christmases. Dan looked like he’d stepped straight out of the box.

  ‘Hello Dan, you all right? I thought Viv said you’d been out and about already?’

  ‘Hey Patrick, I was, but I got a little too close to the action – a few flares and some tear gas – I didn’t want to turn up to see you looking like a bum so I decided to run back to the Headland and switch clothes.’ Patrick nodded. When Dan said he’d run back to the hotel he probably meant it. ‘I really ’preciate you letting me tag along.’

  ‘There’s no need … I mean it’s fine, it’ll be useful.’

  And it was. Dan turned out to be both willing and extremely able, while at the same time more than happy to let Patrick take the lead.

  ‘You’re the old hand here buddy, I’m a newbie compared to you. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’

  They gathered interviews, asking a succession of people whether they knew the students who’d been beaten up over in Mong Kok. Several did; one had even been allowed in to visit his friend in hospital. While Patrick recorded an interview, Dan watched his back and vice versa.

  Several of the people Patrick spoke to suggested he talk to Eric. He hadn’t been in Mong Kok when the students were attacked, but he knew everyone who had been and Patrick got the strong impression that it was Eric who’d organised the pop-up protest. He left Dan and worked his way down the edge of Harcourt Road to the point where the front of the protest came face to face with the police line. Eric was standing on a Heath Robinson-like arrangement of stepladders, umbrellas and planks of wood.

  ‘Hey there Eric, me again.’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice sounded croaky.

  ‘Sorry I haven’t got around to looking at those questions of yours quite yet. I’ve been crazy busy. You too I guess?’ Eric nodded. ‘I wanted to talk to you about what happened over in Mong Kok. That business with the students being beaten up?’

  ‘That business?’

  ‘Well …’

  Eric pointed down at the strange arrangements of planks and ladders.

  ‘I can see a lot from up here.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘We talked when we last met about problems and solutions. I think that you have decided not to be part of the solution …’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Eric pointed in Dan’s direction.

  ‘You have chosen your side.’

  ‘I’m a journalist Eric, I don’t have a side.’

  ‘Everybody has a side. There is no choice. Not here, not now …’ Nearby, a group of students who’d been standing, leading the crowd in a singalong, bellowing out the words to a Cantonese pop song, suddenly went silent and sat down. A mobile phone was being passed from hand to hand. ‘… so I don’t see that there is any point in us talking.’ Eric stepped down from the ladder and edged past Patrick. ‘Goodbye.’

  Patrick worked his way back through the crowd. He found Dan sitting on one of the white water-filled crash barriers.

  ‘He doesn’t want to speak.’

  ‘How come? I thought you guys were buddies?’

  ‘Yeah, well …’ Patrick was uncertain how to explain. ‘The thing is, Eric saw that I was here with you and …’ another awkward pause. ‘Basically he thinks you might’ve taken someone’s phone.’

  The American laughed.

  ‘Oh, is that it? I geddit, but I think you’re being all English and polite with me Patrick. Not might’ve taken – deliberately freakin’ stolen. This girl I interviewed started jumping up and down just afterwards – telling everyone I’d lifted her phone. Like I need another phone …’ He found his own two phones in the pockets of his camo pants and held them out for Patrick to see.

  ‘I know, it’s probably just some kind of mix-up.’

  ‘Must be. But I’m sorry that’s gone and screwed things up for you buddy. Do you want me to go tell Eric we hardly know each other?’

  Patrick shook his head.

  ‘Nah, no. Thanks though … I appreciate the offer. Listen I’ve got enough material to make this piece without Eric. How about we call it a day?’

  ‘Suits me, back to the ranch then?’

  ‘Back to the ranch.’

  The photograph on the phone that was being passed from hand to hand was of Sammy, slumped against a garage door with his nose bloodied, his eyes open but emptied of light and his face a sickening
grey. There followed a number of instant tributes from people who claimed to vaguely know him. These were followed by a flood of other posts from dozens of different social media accounts. Accounts with names like: HKTheTruth, ThePeople@HK, Cantoprotest … none of the accounts were ones that Eric was familiar with, he’d not heard of any of them until now, but all claimed first-hand knowledge of what had happened to Sammy Kwok.

  Some asserted that he’d had an allergic reaction to the pepper spray, stumbled off and suffocated. They pointed to the blood on his face and someone claiming to be a junior doctor at a central Hong Kong hospital said that this pattern of bleeding often happened as a result of a violent allergic reaction. Other social media accounts suggested that the boy had committed suicide and his friends had decided to make it look like he was a victim of police brutality. The picture was a fake – if you looked carefully you’d see the dead boy’s head was out of proportion with his body, someone had grafted Sammy’s head onto a different body. Others weighed in; they’d seen this boy elsewhere in Hong Kong – nowhere near the Connaught Road – others reported a recent sighting across the water in Kowloon – Sammy Kwok wasn’t dead at all, much less murdered. So it went on. A seemingly endless wave of speculation and misinformation that left you not knowing who or what to believe. Eventually, this deluge of lies, conspiracy theories and nonsense became too much for Eric to bear. He gave the mobile phone back to the student who’d lent it to him, together with a health warning.

  ‘We’re going to find out what happened to Sammy. But we’re not going to find it in there.’

  Fred Curepipe pushed his laptop shut and pressed his forefinger hard against the centre of his forehead. Sometimes this worked. The migraine that had been building slowly behind one eye or the other would beat a slow retreat. At other times not. Fred glanced at his watch and realised that he must have been staring at the screen – coding, typing, reading – for four hours solid. No wonder his peripheral vision had started to go, replaced by a blurred rainbow of colours and, soon after that, head-splitting pain. He pressed his finger harder against his forehead and closed his eyes. He needed a break. He’d done enough, more than anyone else could have managed with the modest amount of data he’d been sent. The various hares he’d set running would run on without him.