by Mark Burnell
'In a heartbeat.'
'Then stay.'
'I will.'
'Now.'
But she couldn't. There was a single thought pulling her through the maelstrom: without the list, she was lost. The list was her only bargaining chip. Without it, there was no future. Not for her, not for Komarov. As for Mark, who could say?
'I can't.'
'I don't think I've ever asked you for anything, but I'm asking you now. Stay.'
'Mark, you have to believe me. If I could, I would.'
He shook his head. 'I don't have to believe you. Not any more.'
At the door she handed him his keys. That was when reality began to cut through the fog of shock. It was the finality of it that was so crushing. When Mark told her to take care, she began to cry. And despised herself for it. He looked as damaged as she was. She saw no hatred, just disappointment. Somehow that was worse.
At Maclise Road she tried to summon Petra but she wasn't available, so she had to pull herself together alone. Assuming her flight landed on time, and assuming she got what she wanted from the address Carleen Attwater had given her, she felt it should be possible to go straight back to the airport and catch one of the late flights to London. With as little as six hours on the ground, she could be back at Heathrow in under thirty hours.
That was the plan. She shuffled round the flat on auto-pilot, throwing a few bits and pieces into a small carry-on bag, to make it look as though she intended to stay at least a short while. She chose the Claire Davies passport she'd used for her last trip to Hong Kong. Then she'd been a tourist. What would she be now? Still a tourist. Who, if anyone bothered to ask, had received tragic news on her arrival and was consequently taking the first available flight home. She collected the Siemens and Nokia phones, a couple of Claire Davies credit cards, two thousand US dollars in cash and the Sony Vaio laptop.
The bed was exactly as she and Mark had left it, after the night they'd spent in it before her trip to Berlin. One part of her wanted to crawl into it, to wrap what remained of him around her aching body. The other part wrenched everything off the mattress, rolled it into a ball and hurled it into the corner.
She caught a black taxi outside Olympia. The driver was the perky type. He caught her eye in the rear-view mirror and resorted to cliché.
'Cheer up, love. Might never happen.'
She shot him her most withering look. 'It already has.'
During the night she saw a thunderstorm thousands of feet beneath her, circular ripples of brilliant white light spreading out from a central flashpoint in the clouds. Her favourite photograph of Mark was taken during a climb of the Eiger, the summer before they met. In it, he was perched on a ledge in such a way that it made him look as though he was floating. Above, it was a beautiful, clear day, the sky dark blue with altitude. Below, there were clusters of pristine white cloud, the spaces between them clear enough to reveal the land beneath.
Now, with her face pressed to the window, watching the light-show, she tried to convince herself that it made no difference. That if she had missed the flight Mark would still have told her to go.
She wanted to tell him everything. Now that the worst had happened, she wanted to plead her case, if only to prevent his memory of her from being incomplete. She accepted she was guilty but there were mitigating circumstances.
She didn't sleep at all. By the time her aircraft began its descent into Hong Kong she was dehydrated and exhausted. Under the harsh light in the tiny aircraft toilet she looked at her reflection in the mirror. It wasn't good; her skin so pale it was almost blue, set against the whites of her eyes, which were as red as the rims surrounding them. Standing in line at Immigration she felt dizzy and tried to remember when she'd last eaten anything. In Berlin, probably. Dinner with Savic. She couldn't quite work out how many days ago that had been. Two or three? It seemed like weeks.
She took the Airport Express to Kowloon. Once the train was out in the open she turned on her Nokia and called Mark. She'd thought about it on the flight. She knew she should wait. In another eighteen hours she would be back in London. But she didn't care about doing the right thing. She had to say something to him.
She got his answer-phone. The first message was an incoherent ramble: a string of apologies linked by pauses and repetition. Ten minutes later, having composed herself, she left a second message.
'Sorry, it's me again. About the other message – if I were you I'd disregard it. I just wanted to say this. You asked if there was any explanation that would make what I've done all right. The answer is no. But there is an explanation for why I did it. And I'd like you to hear it when I get back. I can't really think of a good reason why you should. If you decide not to, I won't think anything less of you. And if you do decide to listen, and it makes no difference at all, I'll understand. Because what I have to tell you is something I would never tolerate from anyone. Probably not even you. Mercifully, though, you're not like me. Anyway, it's up to you. I still love you. Whatever happens, you can't change that. Take care.'
The call made, it was time to cast Stephanie aside and to be Petra. Despite the way she felt, she needed clarity. Just for a few hours. On the flight back she'd let pills and alcohol do their worst.
At Jordan station in Kowloon, it was just a few minutes walk through the neon forest to Woosung Street. The Nikita Studio was on the second floor, above a Nepalese restaurant. The entrance was sandwiched between the restaurant and Sum Fai Photo Services. Large illuminated billboards protruded over the street, advertising Fuji, Pentax and Minolta. Stephanie entered a hall barely shoulder-wide, rose to a half-landing, where there were battered metal mail-boxes nailed to the wall, before taking the stairs to the second floor. The first floor seemed deserted.
The door to Nikita Studio was locked. There was no light seeping from beneath it. She pressed the buzzer, then knocked several times, but got no response. Nikita Studio was painted in gold on the door above the name of the photographer – Anthony Yu – and the studio number. She dialled it and got a recorded message. The place was shut for three days.
Three days. Stephanie couldn't afford days. She was measuring her future in hours.
To the left of the door was an empty display case. There had been sample photographs in it once; dark rectangles on red felt marking out their positions against the rest of the faded material. In the bottom right hand corner were two business cards. Or, rather, two sides of the same card; one in Cantonese, the other in English. Yu's mobile number was included. Stephanie rang it.
'Is that Mr Yu?'
'Who's this?'
'A friend of mine gave me your number.'
'Who?'
'You took some photographs of her. They were really good. I need some the same.'
'You call me tomorrow.'
'That's the thing. I need them now.'
'Tomorrow. Not now. Not possible.'
'It's urgent. I'd be happy to pay extra.'
'Where are you?'
'I'm at your studio in Woosung Street. But it's shut.'
'I'm not there.'
No shit, Sherlock. 'Where are you?'
'Macao.'
Stephanie swore silently, then said, 'This is an emergency. If I came over to Macao tonight would you …'
'Not possible. Call me in the morning.'
'But the message on your answer-machine says …'
'Back in the morning. Eleven.'
He ended the call. She tried his number again but he'd switched off his phone.
She stood there, in the rank gloom of the second floor landing, and whispered curses that echoed around her. Then she took a deep breath and reached for perspective. She wouldn't be flying home tonight. A setback, but hopefully not a catastrophe. In any case, there was no point in worrying about it. Yu could be anywhere in Macao.
There was nothing to do until morning. Which meant she needed somewhere to stay. Her first instinct was to choose somewhere cheap and close by. But she ignored that and opted for her seco
nd instinct, taking a room at the Ritz-Carlton on the other side of Victoria Harbour. If they were surprised by her dishevelled appearance, Claire Davies's platinum American Express card reassured them.
Alone in her room, she flopped onto the bed. She felt disgusting; she was still wearing the clothes she'd been in the last time she'd kissed Savic. He was still on her skin. But she was too tired to bother with a shower. Instead she stripped, raided the mini-bar for alcohol, took two tablets of Melatonin, then crawled beneath the sheets.
She woke at half past six and spent forty-five minutes stretching, easing the stiffness away, welcoming the warmth that liquefied her muscles. By the time she'd finished she was perspiring, sweating the last of Savic out of her body.
She ran a hand over the firm ripples of her stomach and promised herself that once she was free of Magenta House she would let herself soften. She'd lived in the south of France for a while, leading the kind of idyllic existence she yearned for now, and had enjoyed a fuller figure then: a little extra on her hips, heavier breasts, the slight suggestion of a belly – it had felt so right, so her. All that remained of that version of Stephanie was the length of hair. For most of her life as Petra she'd worn it short. Lately she'd made a conscious effort to grow it. Something different, something to make her feel less like Petra.
She rang room service, ordered breakfast, then had a long, warm shower, soaping herself thoroughly, washing her hair twice. She was in a white towelling dressing-gown when her food was delivered. After she'd eaten she poured herself more coffee, hooked up the Vaio to her phone and checked Petra's Hotmail accounts. There was a message from Stern. Half an hour later they were together.
> I've been looking for you everywhere. Where have you been, Petra?
> After all these years, Oscar, and you try a cheap shot like that?
> One day I'll get lucky.
> Not with me. What's on your mind?
> You're in demand.
> Without wishing to appear immodest. I usually am.
> Not like this.
> What are you talking about?
> Waxman and Cheung. What a spectacular. Your profile has never been higher. I have three firm offers and five maturing enquiries, two of them from governments.
> Will I make the cover of Vogue?
> I'm serious. You can confine the days of the six-figure contract to history.
> I'll bear it in mind.
> You're not interested?
> Not at the moment. I'm working on something else.
> Please tell me it'll be as good as Waxman and Cheung.
> Oscar, what are you going to do when I retire?
> Wear black for a year. I hope that was a rhetorical question.
Stephanie poured the remains of the coffee into her cup. Stern lasted almost two minutes.
> Please tell me you're not retiring, Petra.
She switched off the Vaio without replying.
Woosung Street, ten to midday. The Nepalese restaurant was closed. Stephanie saw someone sweeping the floor towards the rear. She entered the narrow hall and took the stairs to the second floor. The front door to Nikita Studio was still locked but she saw muted light coming from beneath it. She heard faint sounds – a male voice over bad pop music – and pressed the buzzer.
Nothing.
She tried again, keeping the button depressed until she heard footsteps and curses coming her way. One chain, a second chain, then a bolt, and finally a key, before the door swung open.
Carleen Attwater had been right. Anthony Yu was a Chinese version of Marcel Claesen. Shorter, but no less emaciated, his skin as waxy, his cheeks as hollow, his hair as greasy, though Yu's was pulled into a pony-tail. He wore an effeminate gold charm bracelet around his right wrist. His crimson silk shirt was undone to the stomach, revealing two gold chains and a corrugated rib-cage.
'Anthony Yu?'
'What?' he snapped, his teeth clenched, keeping a cigarette in place.
'We spoke last night.'
'Busy. Call tomorrow.'
He started to close the door but Stephanie moved forward, barging past him into a cramped reception area, a desk occupying a third of the available space, no one behind it. Half the ceiling panels were hanging down; she could see pipes and wiring above. Yu told her to leave. She ignored him and opened the door to her right, revealing a dim storage area and a foul-smelling toilet beyond.
'Get out!'
There was only one other door and it led towards the music. Yu slammed the front door shut, then scampered after her. At the end of the stunted corridor she flung open the door. The studio windows overlooking Woosung Street had been blacked out, three of them with blinds, two of them permanently, plywood panels nailed to the frames. There were two cameras mounted on tripods – a Fujifilm FinePix and a Minolta – two light boxes and a selection of reflector panels. At the centre of the floor a gaudy purple satin sheet had been laid over a mattress. A young Chinese girl was lying naked on top. As soon as Stephanie entered the room she sat up and wrapped the satin sheet around her body.
'What you want?' Yu shouted.
Submitting to Petra completely, Stephanie spun round, took a step towards Yu and elbowed him in the face, extinguishing the cigarette on his lips. He dropped to the floor with a surprisingly meaty thump. The girl squealed.
Stephanie pointed at her and said, 'Stay there. Don't move.'
Then she grabbed Yu by the collar and hauled him to his feet. He was cupping his mouth, groaning into a bony hand. Stephanie marched him towards a chair and pushed him into it.
When he finally looked up her eyes were waiting for him. 'Questions.'
He shook his head. 'I don't know.'
'I haven't asked yet. But you do know. And you will tell.'
The room was hot and stuffy. It smelt of baby oil and stale cigarette smoke. Something sickening by Celine Dion was coming from a portable radio-cassette player on the floor in the far corner.
'A few weeks ago an American woman came here. Early fifties, blonde hair, good-looking.'
He was already shaking his head.
'You remember her. She's not the type you normally see here. She came to collect something. You had to show her it was a document before putting it in an envelope and sealing it in front of her.'
Yu took his hand away from his mouth. The burn on his upper lip looked like a monstrous cold sore. There was a measure of rage in his eyes but there was a far greater measure of cowardice.
'Who brought you the document?'
'I can't tell you.'
The backhand swipe was so fast, he never saw it coming. It split his lip and was all Stephanie needed. Yu took pictures of naked girls. He wasn't made for physical resilience. Between theatrical sighs he told her everything.
Every month he paid protection to a 49. About a week before Attwater appeared his 49 phoned him and told him he would receive a call from a man he'd never met. It didn't matter who he was. Yu was to follow his instructions to the last detail. In return, this man was going to pay a month's premium. It never occurred to Yu to argue with the 49. Stephanie understood that.
The man called. He was sending round a document in an unsealed envelope. Yu was not to read the contents. He was to wait for a foreign woman to call, who would then come and collect it. He would show her that it was a piece of paper, then he would close it in her presence and use the wax seal that the man would provide.
'That was it?'
'Yes.'
'And everything happened the way it was supposed to?'
'Yes.'
'Who was the man?'
'He didn't deliver the envelope himself. He used someone else.'
'Why did he pick you?'
Yu shrugged. 'I don't know.'
Stephanie could tell he was lying. 'I'm going to break your nose if you try that again. The man on the phone and you – what's the connection?'
Yu's shoulders slumped. 'The girl who brought the document.'
'She knew him?'
He nodded.
'How did you know her?'
'I photographed her.'
'Do you have a print?'
'Please …'
Stephanie was already helping him out of the chair.
'Show me.'
He sorted through half a dozen large portfolio cases, selected one and laid it on a work-bench. He unzipped the case and began to flick through one laminated page after another. When he found the girl, there were two things about her that surprised Stephanie. Firstly, she wasn't Chinese. Secondly, she recognized her.
Stephanie parted the bead curtain and stepped inside. There were only three tables in front of the counter. There was a green light overhead between two rotor blade fans that were spinning as fast as possible. They did nothing to disperse the poaching heat but were effective at recycling the fragrant air: curry, Turkish tobacco, body odour. Only one of the three tables was occupied. The small Indian in the avocado suit saw her first, peering over the shoulder of the much larger man opposite him, who then turned round.
'This time, Viktor, you do need to be worried. This time you are the business.'
Viktor Sabin blanched. 'What are you doing here?'
'Can't you guess?'
'With you it's impossible to tell.'
Sweat was pouring off him. His pale blue polo shirt was saturated, the dark hairs on his arms slick to the skin. Stephanie glanced at the table: two glasses of beer, a selection of plastic plates, mostly picked clean, and a small square of paper. At the centre of it, three stones.
'Rubies, Viktor?'
'For a friend.'
'What a coincidence.'
She moved round, pulled a metal chair across from another table and sat down between Sabin and the Indian.
'Aren't you going to introduce me?'
'Javinder, Petra. Petra, Javinder. How did you know I was going to be here?'
'I went to your office. Your secretary was very helpful.'
'Did you leave her in one piece?'
'Viktor, I'm offended.'
He waved a fat hand at her. 'She's not the brightest star in the night sky but she has other qualities.'
'So I saw. Are these for her?'
'No, no, no. These are real.'
