A Cursed Place

by Peter Hanington

  37 A Refresher Course

  THE COLLEGE OF JOURNALISM, ELEPHANT & CASTLE, LONDON

  Carver put the red metal fire bucket back in the corner and checked the room. The lesson had gone fine – better than fine in fact, despite his mind being elsewhere. Naz had been helpful. Carver’s plan was to give the class a quick introduction to digital editing and then let them practise, but she was already proficient enough that most of the students ended up standing around her desk and watching her do it. She was slow compared to Carver, but better than him at explaining things in a language they understood.

  He was in the corridor stooping down and struggling to lock the classroom door, when the sudden sound of someone clearing their throat startled him. He dropped both the keys and his briefcase.

  ‘What the …?’

  He turned to see McCluskey; she was wearing a canary yellow mac and a flowery headscarf. She looked him up and down.

  ‘Well, blow me if it isnae Mr Chips. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, that cord jacket of yours really is a fright.’

  ‘You almost gave me a bloody heart attack McCluskey. What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve come fae a journalism refresher.’

  ‘Is that right? Well then you need to go and sign up at reception.’

  ‘Not a journalism refresher for me. A journalism refresher for you.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Glad you think so. Have you time for a wee cup of tea?’

  ‘Have I got a choice?’

  ‘Nope.’

  They took the lift down to the canteen. Lunch was just finished and a solitary cleaner was pushing a mop around and packing up the tables. He agreed to leave one of the pull-down tables with button seats out for them to sit at and McCluskey went to get a cup of tea and a hot chocolate from the drinks dispenser. She put the tea down in front of William and took the seat opposite.

  ‘Feck, these seats are uncomfortable. Which buttock are you s’posed to sit on?’

  ‘I usually go for the right-hand one.’

  ‘Got it.’

  She was about to say her piece when she noticed a young Asian kid in jeans and a green Adidas tracksuit top loitering at the canteen entrance, staring at her and Carver.

  ‘Is that one of yours?’

  William turned.

  ‘Christ on a bike. Yeah, that’s Naz.’

  He waved her over.

  ‘Hello Mr Carver …’ She glanced at McCluskey, a sheepish smile on her face. ‘I’m terribly sorry to interrupt.’ Carver shook his head.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Just be quick. What do you want?’

  Naz explained what she wanted. In short, an extension to an essay deadline.

  ‘Why do you need more time?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been offered a couple of extra shifts at the local paper. Some junior sub-editing. It’s holiday cover but I thought …’

  ‘Which paper?’

  ‘The Hounslow Chronicle.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you did shifts at a local paper.’

  ‘Well … you didn’t ask.’

  ‘I guess not. Sure, you can have an extension, will one week do it?’

  ‘Awesome.’

  ‘Awesome?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  ‘Have you seen the Sistine Chapel, Naz?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘The Grand Canyon?’ She shook her head. ‘How about St Paul’s Cathedral?’

  She nodded vigorously.

  ‘I went there on a school trip.’

  ‘Right … so St Paul’s Cathedral is awesome, like the Vatican, like the Grand Canyon. Me giving you an extra week to finish your essay isn’t awesome.’

  ‘Okay. But it means a lot to me. That’s what I meant to say.’

  ‘Fine. Now bugger off.’

  McCluskey waited until Naz was out of earshot before talking.

  ‘She seems like a smart one.’

  ‘She’s the best of the bunch.’

  ‘You’re enjoying the teaching then are ye?’

  ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘I’m glad fer ye.’ She paused. ‘Don’t miss your old life at all then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. I miss it sometimes.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ She glanced around the empty canteen; there was a whiff of bleach in the air. ‘What you’re doing here Billy is … you’re grazing and you’re not the grazing sort.’ Carver shrugged. ‘You’re the type of horse that’s meant to die in harness.’

  William laughed.

  ‘If that’s your idea of a motivational speech, McCluskey, then it needs work.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m not putting it quite right, but the point is you need to be working.’

  ‘Teaching is working.’

  ‘You’re teaching part time. What do you do the rest of the time?’

  ‘Plan classes. Attend pointless BBC management meetings. Shout at the radio. That kind of thing.’

  ‘You need to be doing the work that you’re good at …’ She hesitated, ‘… and other people need for you to be doing that work as well. You want an example of why you need to pull yer finger out?’ She didn’t wait for a response. ‘I was assaulted last night.’

  ‘What?’

  Carver coughed; a mouthful of tea had gone down the wrong way. ‘Assaulted? Christ almighty Jemima, why didn’t you say so at the beginning? I’m so sorry. Assaulted by who?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure.’ She paused. ‘And it wasn’t exactly assaulted … but some strange woman showed up in the garden last night, trying to scare the shite out of me.’

  Carver relaxed.

  ‘Good luck to her with that.’

  ‘Shut up. I’m assuming you know what this means?’

  ‘No, but I’m absolutely certain you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘It means we’re on the right track.’

  ‘By “we”, you mean you and Patrick?’

  ‘For now, aye. Patrick is the reason I’m here. He needs a favour.’

  ‘A favour? From me?’

  ‘Of course from you, you eejit. Who else?’

  38 A New Tradition

  BROCHU, CHILE, SOUTH AMERICA

  Soledad told the men about Public Square’s plans for a nursery, a community centre and a museum. She explained that the missing petroglyphs – the ten-thousand-year-old rock paintings removed during the building of the dam – would be returned and properly displayed.

  ‘But this isn’t all that we need to get back, is it? Our ancestral paintings of llamas and pumas and lizards are one thing. Our self-respect and dignity is the other. First and foremost … our safety.’ Soledad had tucked the notes away in her jeans pocket now, she was speaking from the heart and every person there was listening. One of the miners was even taking photos or filming her with his phone.

  She spoke about the dam, about the leaks in the wall that everyone knew about, but preferred not to dwell on, she talked about the early warning system that did not work. The siren that was supposed to alert the entire district was barely loud enough that the houses nearest to the dam wall could hear it. At the last test, the sirens had failed completely, and the mine managers had sounded the alarm using their car horns. She saw some in her audience shuffling their feet, arms being crossed. ‘The first step to changing something is to talk about it honestly. No matter how uncomfortable that might make us feel.’ Heads nodded. Looking down to the side she saw that her friend, the stray mutt, had fallen asleep in the sun, his flank gently rising and falling. Soledad smiled. ‘I have bored even this poor dog to sleep.’ There was laughter. ‘I will finish, I promise, but please remember … the company tell us that they want to do something new here in Brochu. We need to help them be ambitious, we have to show them how revolutionary this new thing could be.’ Nods and even a smattering of applause. She acknowledged this and applauded the miners in return. Stepping down from the platform, she turned to the knot of miners closest to her. ‘Now, please, I would like to see inside the m
ine.’ The applause stopped and faces turned away from her and in the direction of a pouchy-eyed man standing on the edge of the crowd. He shook his head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘If I am going to properly represent you, as I would like to, then I need to see the work that you do. I need to understand that work.’

  ‘It’s not possible.’

  Soledad had expected this. No women were allowed inside the mine, a superstition rooted in these miners’ belief in Pachamama or the earth mother who resided deep inside the mine and was prone to fits of jealousy. If a woman on her period or, God forbid, a pregnant woman entered the mine then Pachamama, in a fit of fury, would hide the ore, bury the seam beneath tons of useless rock. The devilish El Tio, too, was believed to have strong opinions about allowing women underground. Soledad saw several of the miners casting a wary look in the direction of their resident icon. The cartoonish representation of El Tio that stood outside the entrance to this mine was particularly macabre. Made from clay and the size of a toddler or small child, this devil sat with a black-toothed grin on his face, his arms outstretched, welcoming the miners into his domain. A cigarette was jammed between every finger, a half-smoked cigar in his mouth. Sticking out from in between his legs, his most noteworthy feature – a foot-long, bright red penis. The year that the tailings dam officially opened, the Curepipe company had invited a government minister to attend the ceremony and Santiago had sent the mining minister, a woman. The minister was only allowed to set foot inside the mine after agreeing to plant a kiss on El Tio’s member.

  Soledad knew that to back down now would be to lose all of the ground she had managed to win with her speech.

  ‘I do not see why it wouldn’t be possible for a woman to walk into this mine. Let’s see …’

  The pouchy-eyed man moved towards her, yelling now.

  ‘It’s the tradition.’

  ‘Get a new tradition.’

  Soledad strode towards the mine, the dog following.

  ‘Girl, girl stop! At the very least you must do what the politician did. Before you cross the threshold you must kiss El Tio’s …’ Soledad turned suddenly and stared the man down.

  ‘No!’ She glared at him. ‘Things need to be different, you all know that. We need a lot of things to change – so here’s the first thing.’ She shot El Tio a look. ‘Let the devil suck his own dick.’

  Some of the men laughed, albeit nervously. They were scared, but also impressed. This scrawny young girl had no fear. Not of man, nor the devil. She was strange but she was also brave and smart and maybe that was what they needed now. They’d been outwitted and outmanoeuvred all their lives. Why not let her see what she could do?

  39 Short Legs

  THE LENNON WALL, CENTRAL GOVERNMENT COMPLEX, HONG KONG

  From a distance the Lennon Wall looked like some sort of strange animal, its pelt rustling in the light breeze. Only as you drew closer could you see that the animal’s skin was made up of thousands – perhaps it was now hundreds of thousands – of hand-written notes, messages of support and solace. Patrick found a space among the scores of people crowded around the wall and read:

  Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened.

  The note was signed Chris from Canada, although Patrick was pretty sure that Buddha had come up with this idea some time before Chris had. There were words of wisdom from Shakespeare, Maya Angelou, Gandhi and many others … Patrick had remembered to bring his recording equipment this time and he taped people reading the quotes and their various reactions. There were rumours that the police were planning to come en masse and rip the Lennon Wall down before long and if that was the case then this audio would be useful. But that wasn’t the main reason for Patrick’s visit. He was here to see Eric. McCluskey had told him to get on with the day job and let her check out exactly where else in the world these so-called repairmen cropped up and who was asking for them. It made sense for her to do that big-picture stuff, it was her investigation. But it also made sense for Patrick to do some digging at his end too. He was at the coal face after all.

  Eric Fung was sitting at the centre of a group of fellow Scholastic supporters, halfway up the concrete steps that led to the Hong Kong Government Complex. Patrick worked his way through the crowd until he was standing at the edge of the group. He felt somewhat apprehensive; their last encounter had ended badly, with Eric accusing Patrick of having chosen the wrong side in Hong Kong’s increasingly fractious political battle. Judging by the hostile looks on the faces of Eric’s fellow students, he had been categorised as a Hong Kong Government lackey or worse.

  ‘Hello there Eric.’

  ‘Hello Mr BBC.’

  The group eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘I was hoping we might talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I had some more questions about how the authorities here are responding to the protests …’ He held up his kitbag, inside which, along with his recording equipment, were the faxes McCluskey had sent him. ‘… also, I had some documents I hoped you might take a look at.’

  ‘Information that will be useful to us?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be the purpose of me showing them to you Eric …’ He paused. ‘… I can’t do that. But if you read them and for some reason find them helpful, then I don’t have a problem with that.’

  Eric glanced at Patrick’s bag.

  ‘And you think that is possible?’

  ‘It’s worth a punt, isn’t it? What have you got to lose?’ Patrick stared at the young student. His face was pale, almost grey and behind the thick, black-rimmed spectacles, his eyes were red and puffy. He looked knackered. ‘How about we go and get something to eat? My treat. Noodles or some milk tea. You look like you could use a break.’

  They sat at a wooden fold-out table next to one of the many food stalls that had set up shop near to the Lennon Wall and ate noodles in hot oil and sesame sauce. As he ate, some of the colour returned to Eric’s face, but he was still strangely quiet and considerably less cocksure than usual.

  ‘Are you all right Eric?’

  ‘I am tired, I haven’t had much sleep this week.’

  ‘Where do you sleep. I mean where are you living?’

  The young Hongkonger glared at Patrick.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I’m not asking for your address Eric, I’m just interested in how you … keep going, avoid arrest, stuff like that.’

  ‘I move around. I stay with comrades in different parts of the city. Every night a different place.’ He attempted a smile. ‘Sofa-surfing, people call it.’

  Patrick shook his head.

  ‘Sofa-surfing is meant to be fun. What you are doing doesn’t sound much like fun.’

  ‘It is necessary. I do not mind. I am not the important thing, it isn’t me that I’m worried about.’

  ‘Okay, I’ve heard rumours that the Hong Kong police are about to try and take the Lennon Wall down. Is that it?’

  Eric shrugged.

  ‘If they try, they try, we are ready for that. My worry is a bigger worry than just the Wall.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘If you watch the international news right now, or read the papers, you might think that our protests are succeeding.’

  ‘Well, the numbers are growing …’

  ‘Yes, but so are the number of reversals. The number of protestors under arrest …’ He met Patrick’s eye. ‘… or having accidents of one sort or another.’

  ‘Accidents?’

  Eric nodded. He lifted his bowl and slurped down the last of his food.

  ‘Did you hear about Sammy Kwok?’

  Patrick racked his brains; the name rang a bell.

  ‘Sammy … was he the kid who had the asthma attack? An allergic reaction to the pepper spray. Er … he died I think.’ Patrick paused. ‘I’m sorry, I know he was part of the protests, was he a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not a friend. He was a fell
ow student, a comrade. But Sammy wasn’t allergic to pepper spray, he didn’t have asthma. The only part of what you just told me that’s true is that Sammy Kwok is dead.’

  ‘Right, so why do …’

  ‘Why do you and most other people think it was an accident?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because the truth is, he was murdered and whoever murdered him is good at lying.’ He balanced his chopsticks on top of the empty bowl. ‘Better at lying than the rest of us are at telling the truth. My grandmother used to tell me that lies only had very short legs and so they can’t travel far …’ Eric looked across at Patrick. ‘… this is not true any more.’

  He told Patrick about Sammy; he knew far more about him now than he had when he’d asked him to run what had seemed like a simple errand. ‘If you search his name now, you will read horrible things … not just inaccurate information about allergies and asthma. Malicious things. People claiming that he was spying for the Americans, spying for the Chinese, that he was a common thief, even a prostitute. I have been to visit Sammy’s mother. She told me that the people who killed him killed him not just once. With the lies they tell about him, they murder him again and again. Sammy was her eldest, his brothers and sisters cannot persuade her to eat. She is slowly starving herself to death.’

  ‘I’m sorry Eric. I can look into this? I’d be happy to.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He took a sip of his milk tea, making eye contact with Patrick over the top of the polystyrene cup. ‘I sent Sammy to run the errand that got him killed. It was my fault.’

  ‘What? No. The only person to blame for this is …’

  ‘I told no one else about it. Not about Sammy or the job I needed him to do. No one. Do you see?’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I knew that the authorities would try and infiltrate our organisation, I knew that there would be spies and that they would hack into the phones and computers. But now I’m beginning to think that they are somehow …’ Eric hesitated. ‘… inside our heads.’

  40 Small Fires