A Cursed Place

by Peter Hanington

  He had a little round table to himself and a keen young waiter who obviously saw a big tip coming if he kept this American in drinks and food.

  ‘Señor … this is our bar tender’s famous Pisco sour. The best you will taste. The spirit is from Elqui.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Have you been to Peru?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Our Pisco sour is better yes?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Elqui was the birthplace of the Chilean version of Pisco. The drink was invented by the Peruvians but perfected by the Chileans in the opinion of every man, woman or child in the country. Jags liked how proud these people were about the food and drink they produced. Their empanadas were the best on the continent, their fish was the freshest, wine the smoothest, fruit the sweetest. The waiter had gone to get some chips and salsa. Jags gulped the drink down; his chest and lower stomach still ached as a result of the crash, but it seemed like the alcohol was helping. He’d have another.

  The band were giving Garth Brooks’ back catalogue a rest and playing something Jags hadn’t heard before. The cowboy guy had taken a back seat and the greybeard of the band, who had been playing bass, had picked up a battered-looking Spanish guitar and was singing unaccompanied.

  ‘Yo no canto por cantar

  ni por tener buena voz …’

  His voice was not the best, but still the bar fell quiet and people listened. Jags’ thoughts turned to Soledad. She was safe, for now at least. Fred had decided to let her stew for a while. He had ordered a stop to the construction work in Brochu and Soledad had messaged Jags a couple of times to ask why the workmen had suddenly downed tools on the museum and nursery and left. He’d messaged back, saying that there were some issues back in California and that he was going back there to work things out. This was true. The trick was going to be getting to see Elizabeth before seeing Fred. Jags had promised he’d go straight from the airport to his office tomorrow lunchtime. Several times he’d come close to messaging Elizabeth using the burner phone he’d bought for that purpose but each time he’d changed his mind.

  … canto que ha sido valiente

  siempre será canción nueva.’

  Jags ordered the fish tacos. He drank several more Pisco sours and he tipped the waiter well when he left. He walked back to the little motel he’d chosen, filling a bag of ice from the ice machine outside before going to his room. He stopped and listened to the clunking sound of the machine restocking itself. He loved these things; it used to be his job to go fill up the ice bucket when he and his mom went on their annual cross-country driving holiday when he was a little boy.

  Back in the bedroom he opened a beer, lay back on the bed and looked around. It was a good clean room, with hibiscus-flowered wallpaper, a brown bedspread and rock-hard bed. There were movie star lights around the bathroom mirror. He imagined being here with Elizabeth; he bet she’d never stayed anywhere like this and he had a feeling she’d like it. She would’ve liked the bar too.

  ‘Fuck it.’

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone he’d bought. There was only one name in contacts and now he dialled it. Chances were she’d just ignore the anonymous call, but he listened to the far away dial tone and imagined how good it would be to hear her voice. He could feel his heart pumping in his chest and then he heard the dial tone suddenly end and the lines connect.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was Fred.

  83 The Rabbit Hole

  THE LENNON WALL, CENTRAL GOVERNMENT COMPLEX, HONG KONG

  ‘The TV doesn’t do it justice.’ Carver had walked the length of the Lennon Wall, from the top of the concrete steps, close to the Central Government Complex to here at the other end where Patrick was waiting to speak to Eric. Some of the Post-it notes were looking a little dog-eared, the ink had run on many, making the messages of hope and defiance hard to read, but Eric and his fellow protestors had so far succeeded in stopping the Hong Kong police from pulling the wall down. ‘Is that who we’re waiting to see? That short kid in the glasses?’

  Patrick nodded.

  ‘He’s tougher than he looks.’

  ‘He’d need to be.’

  Patrick noticed that almost all of the young protestors gathered around Eric were wearing masks of one sort or another now – all except Eric himself. He glanced back at William.

  ‘What do you think of the Lennon Wall then?’

  Carver pulled a face.

  ‘Bit of a mixed bag isn’t it? There’s some plonker from Canada trying to pass himself off as Buddha over there. Have you seen that?’

  ‘I think I might’ve – many candles lighted from a single candle? That one?’

  Carver nodded.

  ‘That’s it …’ He raised a finger, pointing back over Patrick’s shoulder. ‘… don’t look now, here comes your candle.’

  Eric Fung was walking in their direction. Patrick made the necessary introductions.

  ‘How come all of your people are wearing masks now Eric? I thought it was just the Chinese tourists who were worried about that.’

  Eric turned and pointed upwards.

  ‘Haven’t you seen one of Hong Kong’s new smart lampposts yet?’

  Patrick looked. There was a freshly painted, thick-trunked black lamppost fifteen feet away.

  ‘Smart? What makes them smart?’

  ‘Internet connected, very small cameras covering all angles, all manner of different sensors. They will monitor air quality, help regulate traffic … all of those beneficial things.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And I’m sure you can guess what else they will do.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You journalists – you keep describing what’s happening here in Hong Kong as a game of cat and mouse – between police and protestors …’ Carver nodded, he’d heard this idiom used often. It had become a cliché. ‘… but it’s even more basic than that. It’s a game of hide and seek. We hide behind masks, we hide ourselves in our phones and our computers.’ Eric paused. ‘We are hiding in our own lives.’

  ‘So why aren’t you wearing a mask?’

  Eric shook his head.

  ‘They have my face already. It’s everyone else’s face they want. They know who I am, they know everything about me – they just haven’t decided what to do with me yet. The likeliest outcome, when this is all over, is that I will be in prison. In fact, that is probably the best-case scenario. Generation Jail … just as you said the first time we met. Do you remember?’

  Patrick nodded.

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Never mind.’ He attempted a smile. ‘I had a feeling that you might come today, I heard about what happened to the BBC lady.’

  ‘Viv.’ Patrick paused. ‘Yes, she was a friend of mine.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you Eric. She was a good person.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘And she was …’

  ‘She was murdered. Maybe by the same person who murdered Sammy Kwok. I thought that would be why you’re here?’

  ‘Well, there are similarities.’

  ‘More than similarities. Exactly the same kind of lies that they told about Sammy are being told about her.’

  ‘Right, yes. So I wanted to ask you whether you’d found out any more about who posted all that stuff about Sammy? I figured it might help me work out what happened to Viv. What’s happening now.’

  Eric pushed his glasses back up his nose.

  ‘You know what’s happening. The people who killed her are spreading lies and sowing confusion just like they did with Sammy. They’re telling people your friend Viv was unstable, that she was depressed – suicidal even. They are saying she was a spy. It is exactly the same as Sammy and it will have the same effect. People won’t know what or who to believe and so, before long, most of them will stop trying. The only report that got anywhere near the truth of what happened to Sammy was that piece you did. We were grateful, but it was only one report.’


  ‘So where is all this stuff coming from Eric? Have you any idea? Who writes it? Who spreads it?’

  ‘Nameless, faceless people. Me and Sammy’s other friends have tried to find out, we managed to trace some of the trolls, but identifying who they are and who they work for is impossible. We’ve chased a lot of people down many different rabbit holes but sooner or later, the trail goes cold or becomes too tangled. We will keep—’

  A dull roaring sound in the skies above the Royal Observatory stopped Eric mid-sentence. They looked up in time to see the green underbelly of a Chinese fighter jet fly low overhead. Eric was about to speak again when the sound of the plane caught up. A thunderous, metallic screaming noise split the sky. Carver saw a man reach down and cover his son’s ears with his hands, but not in time to stop the boy bursting into tears, his face a circle of pain.

  When finally the dreadful noise receded, Eric spoke again.

  ‘I will let you know if we find out anything else about Sammy’s murder, but if I were you, I would focus on what you do know, not what you don’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The reports I read said that the last person to see the BBC lady alive was an American newspaper journalist, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The same man we warned you about? The one who took the phone?’

  ‘Dan Staples – yes. I know you’ve never trusted him Eric and I don’t either but his story stands up – at least where Viv is concerned. There’s CCTV of her leaving his room and going back to hers. There’s nothing after that.’

  ‘CCTV?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Closed circuit footage?’

  ‘Yes Eric …’ Patrick was starting to remember how annoying Eric could be. ‘… thanks for your help but …’

  ‘Closed circuits aren’t closed to everyone. There are fakes, deep fakes. You shouldn’t believe something just because you think you’ve seen it. You need to examine it more closely.’

  Patrick paused. A thought entered his mind and stuck like a dart.

  ‘Examine it more closely.’ He turned and stared at Carver. ‘I’ve just realised something – or I think I have. I need to look at that film of Viv again.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  84 Access All Areas

  PUBLIC SQUARE HQ, CUPERTINO, CALIFORNIA

  Jags hadn’t slept. He’d spent much of the journey back from Santiago to San Fran worrying about the possible consequences of his idiotic drunken decision to call Elizabeth on the burner phone he’d bought. He’d hung up the moment he heard Fred’s voice; hung up, removed the SIM and snapped it into small pieces. Nevertheless, Fred could and almost certainly would have tracked the call. Jags couldn’t bear the thought that his stupidity had put Lizzie in harm’s way. He needed to see her, as soon as possible and definitely before he had to report to Fred.

  Inside the huge glassy atrium at Public Square HQ, Jags saw that the digital ticker tape was back. A good sign perhaps? Representing a small victory for Elizabeth and a defeat for her husband.

  Announcing himself at reception, he pointed at the green-on-black screen and its endless rolling list of search engine requests.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to see that again.’

  The receptionist glanced back over her shoulder and beamed.

  ‘Isn’t it cool?’

  ‘It doesn’t upset you?’

  ‘What? Noooo, not at all. But this is different from the old one, maybe you’re thinking about the old one?’

  Jags shrugged.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘This one is actually a piece of video art, this Bay Area artist, quite a famous guy … he curates it. But it’s not boring. It’s soooo funny. He takes all the craziest searches, about celebrities and everything, really hilarious stuff and he edits them all together. People love it.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Cool. So, if I look at my list here …’ Her eyes flicked down at her computer screen, embedded in the white Corian work top. ‘… I can see your name but not where I’m s’posed to send you.’

  ‘Yeah, well Fred … Mr Curepipe … he’s expecting me any time now. But I need to get ten minutes with Mrs Curepipe first. D’you know where she is right now? Up in her office maybe?’

  ‘Could be … would you mind taking a seat over there while I try and find out?’

  Jags nodded.

  ‘Sure. Thank you.’

  He went and sat down on the low white leather sofa. The usual selection of glossy magazines – Wired, Vogue etc – and the international newspapers had been moved to one end of the glass coffee table to make way for a vase of cut white lilies and leather-bound book of remembrance. Jags picked it up. On the inside page was a photograph of a young woman sitting at a restaurant table, smiling. Underneath in black copperplate:

  Christy Newmark - 1989 to 2014.

  Public Square - 2010 to 2011

  He read a few of the messages; there were many, but they all said the same sort of thing. Tragic, unfair, never forgotten … Jags looked up. The receptionist was calling him back over.

  ‘So … I think I’ve worked out what we’re supposed to do with you …’ She smiled. ‘… if you head on over to the research centre …’

  Jags shook his head.

  ‘No hold up. I thought you were going to see if Lizzie …’ He sucked at his teeth. ‘I mean Mrs Curepipe, if she’s got time to see me first?’

  The young woman nodded.

  ‘Sure and I did. It’s Mrs Curepipe who’s waiting to meet you … over at the research block like I say.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. Thanks.’

  ‘A pleasure.’ She handed him an access all areas pass. ‘Do you know where you’re going?’

  Jags knew. He walked across the campus, past the canteen and the oversized wooden beehive, heading for the research centre, that black metal box of a building, hidden away behind the row of silver birch trees. He was vaguely aware of there being other people around him – walking, cycling, scooting by – but his mind was elsewhere. One moment he was thinking about a hotel bedroom in London, the next a glass-strewn lay-by in Brochu. He shook the second thought from his head and lengthened his stride.

  85 The Erasing

  THE HEADLAND HOTEL, HONG KONG

  The taxi driver that Patrick had hailed a few hundred yards from the Lennon Wall chatted away in Cantolish, occasionally interrupting his monologue about the state of the roads and the state of Hong Kong’s political class to point out a local landmark.

  ‘Bruce Lee? You know him?’ Carver nodded. ‘He lived there.’ The cabby glanced back at William and Patrick through the plastic glass to make sure they were looking at the right building. ‘Yes, there.’

  Carver nudged Patrick with his elbow.

  ‘What was the piece Eric said you put together about Sammy Kwok?’

  Patrick shrugged.

  ‘Oh, it was just this little anatomy of a story thing that I got Brandon to do. I was trying to put a little weight on the other side of the scale. Balance out some of the rubbish people had said, the stuff we all got wrong. It was too dry really, God knows how many people bothered listening to it.’

  ‘Some I’m sure. And Eric seemed grateful for it.’

  ‘I guess.’

  The route the driver was taking back to the Headland Hotel was circuitous. Along the way, he pointed out the street signs that he thought might mean something to the two Englishmen – Aberdeen, Wellington, Elgin.

  ‘What are you hoping another look at the CCTV might tell us then Patrick?’

  ‘I can’t be certain, but I think maybe I missed something.’

  ‘You’re not sure the person on the tape was Viv?’

  ‘No, it was definitely her but …’ The loud sound of a phone ringing filled the cab and Carver felt the burner phone he’d bought vibrate inside his blazer pocket. Only one person had the number. He took it out and answered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Are yo
u all right? I thought we were sticking to the landline?’

  ‘I’m fine. I tried calling you on that. This can’t wait. It’s about your pal Dan Staples.’

  ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘Well, for starters I found out why his name rang a bell. Staples was a hack back in the early two thousands, he knocked around a few of the same trouble spots as you, stringing for various American newspapers.’

  ‘I see.’ Carver paused. ‘You said was. Why was?’

  ‘That Dan Staples died three years back – natural causes, nothing fishy. This new version only arrived on the scene at the beginning of last year. They erased the original, took Staples’ name and a chunk of his CV and he’s been working as a journalist – or pretending to work as a journalist – in some interesting places ever since.’

  ‘Flipping heck.’

  ‘Flipping heck is right. You and Patrick have got yourselves a living, breathing repairman. Now all you just have to do is stick him in a jar and bring him back.’

  ‘Seriously. What do you think we should do?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘We’re in a cab, on the way back to his hotel.’

  ‘Is that right?’ McCluskey hesitated. ‘Well then, first of all, I think the both of you need to be bloody careful.’

  86 The Main Man