The Sky Might Fall (Harry Vee, PI)

by Michael Young

  “Chang. What’s happening? Where’s Jessica?”

  “She left at dawn, sorry to say. Didn’t even hang for breakfast. Did you get the girl?”

  “Not yet. I’m outside the apartment.”

  “Well, before you go inside, her father’s missing.”

  “Fong? What happened?”

  “I don’t know. His office filed a report with the cops two hours ago. He left for work this morning, but didn’t show up. I guess it runs in the family.”

  Harry hung up. Sandra and Denmead were waiting for him. The building was very old, six storeys high, and looked like it would collapse from a strong wind. There was no lift, so they took the stairs to the fifth floor.

  The flat itself was filthy, and stank. Stains ran over the ceiling and down the walls, and dirty clothes, empty pizza boxes and overflowing ashtrays took up most of the available surfaces. There was nobody else there, just a single room with a kitchen in the corner and two doors opposite the front door. Sandra, locking the door behind them, nodded at the one on the left. “She’s in there. We had to bring her here because Andrew thought he was being followed.”

  Harry crossed the room and pushed the door open. The small bedroom was equally filthy, even in the gloom created by the pulled curtains. There in the bed, in only a vest and knickers, was Anita Fong. In her fever she had pushed off the single sheet covering her. She was sweating heavily, and the bed and pillow were stained with more sweat.

  Harry felt her brow. She was burning up. Around her neck was a silver chain, holding a small, polished silver heart. In the centre of the heart, a tiny amethyst caught what little light was in the room. Denmead stood behind Harry. He picked up a small bottle from the table beside the bed. “This is her medicine. She ran out five days ago. We couldn’t get any more. Sandra was taking care of her. As well as she could.”

  Harry looked down at Anita. Her long hair was plastered to her face, her body thin and bony. She was moaning in her sleep, fevered and desperate sounding. He said, “We have to get her out of here. It’s not safe.”

  A crash sounded from the front room. Harry and Denmead spun around in time to see a man in a black ski mask come through the door. Sandra screamed, as Harry pushed Denmead out of his way, sending him flying.

  Luckily for Harry, the man hadn’t seen him. The intruder raised an automatic pistol and shot Sandra neatly in the forehead, her body crumpling to the ground, as Harry raised his own gun and fired two back into the man’s chest. The echoing gunshots were deafening in the tiny space. A second man, dropping the battering ram they had used on the door, came in behind the first, drawing his gun and doing a forward roll across the floor of the room. Harry followed the roll with the pistol and as the man came up onto one knee, his gun pointing at Harry, they both fired at the same time. Harry felt a biting pain in his arm, and fell back against the doorframe.

  The room went suddenly quiet after the ear-splitting reports. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. Harry knew he probably had minutes, maybe seconds. He scrabbled to his feet. The first man was dead, lying at an awkward angle against the wall. The second was holding his throat as thick blood oozed between his fingers. The bullet had passed straight through his neck, and there was already a lot of blood up the wall behind him, and soaking into the carpet with the other stains. His eyes glazed over as Harry watched him.

  Sandra was dead. Probably killed instantly. Harry felt through her pockets and took the car keys. Denmead had hit his head on a table as he fell. A little blood trickled from the wound, but Harry thought he’d be okay. He went back into the bedroom. Anita was still in her fevered dreams, undisturbed by the death in the room next door.

  Harry checked his own wound. The bullet had clipped the deltoid at the top of his arm, just below the shoulder. There was a quite lot of blood, but it would be fine. For now, it just stopped him from doing too much with his arm.

  He bent down and pulled the girl up over his shoulder, wrapped in the sheet. She was no longer a child, he could see that. She wasn’t short either, and Harry barely managed to heave her up and balance her on his good shoulder. He put the gun in his coat pocket, hoping he’d be strong enough to pull the trigger with his injured arm. He got her through the door to the flat. There was nobody outside.

  He managed to get her though the fire door to the back stairs, almost dropping her and wincing in pain from his arm. His bruised ribs were screaming at him as he staggered down the five flights of stairs. Finally reaching the car, balancing Anita on her feet by leaning her against the door, he fumbled with the keys. He dropped her into the back seat, and had just got in himself when he saw a black sedan car pull up twenty yards away.

  Harry ducked down in his seat as four men got out and sprinted into the apartment building, and as soon as they had disappeared, noting the sedan’s number plate, he put the keys into the ignition, started the car and drove away.

  *

  Harry tried to drive calmly. Sandra’s car was an automatic, which helped because his shoulder was stiffening and he was practically one-handed. He checked the mirror. It didn’t look like they were being followed. They were far out in north Kowloon, so there wasn’t a great deal of traffic. Harry set himself to deciding a course of action.

  He was dripping blood and with a half naked, unconscious teenage girl in the back of the car: a car that, technically, was stolen. Stolen from a dead girl, whose body was lying in a room full of dead people. Harry turned round, to find the girl on her side, looking up at him from big, deep, hazel eyes. She seemed to be awake but didn’t say anything, just stared at him. One problem at a time, he supposed.

  He pulled over and drove up onto the pavement at the side of the road, on a long stretch with no pedestrians. People driving by would ignore almost anything if it wasn’t in their way, he hoped. He turned off his phone.

  There was a hooded sweater of Sandra’s over the back seat. That was a start. Climbing into the back of the car, he pulled the bed sheet out from under the girl. She moved a little to help him, without really seeming conscious of what was going on. He folded the sheet to the right length, and tied it tightly around her waist as a long skirt.

  It looked ridiculous, but he hoped it would pass from a distance, if it didn’t fall down. She was still barefoot, but there was nothing he could do about that. Then he pulled her arms above her head as she watched him with unfocussed eyes, and pulled the sweater onto her. He yanked it down around her stomach: ‘Redskins Football’. It was the same colour as her school blazer in the picture he had seen. She seemed to pass out again.

  Harry sat her up and buckled the seat belt around her. At least that would keep her upright, and from a distance she looked like a normal girl sleeping in the back of the car.

  Now for himself. He needed to clean the blood up, but didn’t want to appear on the forecourt cameras of a petrol station. Getting back into the driving seat, he pulled out into the traffic and turned off the main road, circling until he found a likely looking mom and pop store. From the glove compartment he pulled a pack of tissues, which he used to clean up the worst of the blood from his jacket, and some electrical tape. In the store, the old woman watching TV seemed surprised enough to see a foreigner out here. Harry didn’t know that she even noticed the blood. Thank goodness for black clothes.

  He bought a large bottle of water, a bottle of cheap whisky, some more tissue and, since the store didn’t have cigarillos, a random pack of Chinese cigarettes. Back in the car, the girl was still slumped in the back seat. Harry wet the tissue and wiped the blood off his jacket, then, pulling his sleeve down over his shoulder, taped a wad of tissue over the wound.

  He drove through the area until he saw a sign hanging down the corner of a dirty concrete building – Angels Motel. It looked cheap and seedy - exactly what he wanted. Driving through the hanging rubber flaps at the car park entrance, he was relieved to see that the place was virtually empty, with only a couple of parking spaces filled.

  Leaving the gi
rl in the car, he entered to a dingy, musty, ill-lit corridor. The lift was just inside the door to the parking space, and he noted that from the windowed reception counter, no-one would be able to see him bring the girl inside. Harry booked a twin room for a week, paid cash to the disinterested, heavy-set man behind the desk, then went back out to fetch the girl from the car.

  She seemed to be waking up a little again, and he managed to maneuver her to the lift without too much effort, and without being seen. Getting her to the room, her makeshift skirt starting to fall around her thighs, she collapsed uncomplaining onto the bed. Harry locked the door behind them, and pulled out his phone.

  Chang answered almost at once, “Harry, tell me what’s happening.”

  “I’ve got the girl. She’s here with me. She’s sick. Can you get meds?”

  “Just tell me what you need.”

  Harry pulled the empty medicine bottle from his pocket and read off the label, “HSDB 3168, 1,2, dehydrocortisone, 80 mg bd. And find out what it does.”

  “Ok, Harry. Give me a couple of hours.”

  “One more thing. Look up license plate EC2104.”

  “Hey Harry. You ever think about getting a PA? Just curious.”

  Harry told Chang to meet him in a café on Argyle Street. It wasn’t too far to walk, and he didn’t want to take the car out again. He checked the girl. She was looking feverish again, and sweating. He wet a towel and placed it over her forehead, then stripped off his shirt and took the whisky into the bathroom. He washed his wound, then dabbed at it with the whisky. He didn’t have any bandages, and could hardly do it one-handed anyway, so he re-taped it with a large wad of tissue. Finally, he washed the blood out of his shirt in the basin, hanging it over the shower stall to dry, and rinsed his jacket clean.

  Back in the bedroom, he poured himself a large whisky in the dirty motel tumbler, grimacing at the cheap scotch. He lit one of the harsh, cheap Chinese cigarettes, and sat back to watch the girl. She was still feverish, sweating and moaning slightly in her sleep. She had kicked off the sheets, so he left the sweatshirt on her. What are you supposed to do for a fever? Keep her warm, or cool her off? He sat on the side of the bed, wiping her brow with the damp towel, and smoothing the wet hair out of her face.

  *

  On Argyle Road, Harry went into one of the big, anonymous, mid-price brand stores that dotted the busiest part of the street. Buying a clean, new shirt for himself was the easy part. He didn’t know the girl’s size, so he bought a pair of jeans that looked slightly too large, and a belt to keep them up. A t-shirt and thin cotton sweater would do fine in this weather, anything else he could pick up later. A three pack each of socks, vests and knickers. Finally he visited a tobacconist for cigarillos.

  What else did a girl need? Shoes. What size? She would have to do without for now. He picked up some first-aid bits in the pharmacy across the street, and was in the café when Steven Chang walked in and sat next to him. He slipped a couple of bottles of pills into Harry’s shopping bags.

  “1,2, dehydrocortisone. Better known as prednisone.”

  “Thanks. What is it?”

  “An immunosuppressant. Used to treat-” Chang’s eyes went up to the ceiling as he recited from memory, “…allergies, tumors, organ rejection, migraines, and a whole heap of diseases. But my doc says that’s a seriously strong dosage you’ve got there. Handle with care. Where’s the girl?”

  “I’ve got her holed up. She’s in a real state.”

  “I’m not surprised, being holed up with you. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. What about the car?”

  “That bit I can’t help you with. Registration was issued, then the car disappears. Probably Chinese government.”

  “Okay. And how do you treat a fever?”

  “Feed a fever, starve a cold. Or the other way round. How the fuck do I know? Hot brandy. Or talk to my grandmother, she’ll probably do you a chicken soup. You do ask a hell of a lot, you know.”

  *

  Heading back to the motel Harry picked up cigarillos, some cup ramen and some instant coffee. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The girl was still asleep, shivering and feverish. The bed was wet with her sweat, and she had vomited on the pillow. Harry cleaned her up with towels from the bathroom. He was going to have to do something about the towels. Half were covered in blood and the other half in vomit.

  He carefully, wincing from both his ribs and his arm, managed to move her to the other bed, then threw the soiled sheets in the bathroom with the towels. He forced Anita to sit up and sip some water and gave her one of the pills. She seemed to co-operate, but didn’t open her eyes.

  He made ramen for himself, then took a closer look at the motel room. It was as grim as the price suggested. The carpet was indeterminate grey, the curtains dirty beige. The base of the wardrobe was rotten. The window was small, and only opened an inch because of the bars outside. There was a new TV and a DVD player, for the selection of ‘entertainment’ to rent from the motel desk downstairs, and an air conditioner that made the room taste dusty.

  There was also a round table with one large, soft chair, and a small desk with an ashtray, and a big box of matches with a local phone number and a cartoon picture of a girl on a scooter, who was surely underdressed to be just delivering coffee. In the desk drawer Harry found writing paper and one copy each of the New Testament and The Teaching of Buddha.

  He poured himself a large glass of the cheap scotch and turned on the TV. Three local stations, one music channel, two movie channels, and twelve adult channels. It was going to be a long night. He turned to a local station and caught the evening news just as they were talking about Kenny Fong, but he couldn’t make out the Cantonese. He turned his phone on and quickly called Chang.

  Fong was dead, apparent suicide in a hotel room. Harry hung up quickly, turning off his phone again, and lit a cigarillo. He sucked at the cheap whisky, and looked back at the pretty schoolgirl with long black hair, sleeping, more peacefully now, in the bed across the room. It really was going to be a long night.

  *

  It was dark outside when Harry woke up, still slumped in the chair. The only light in the room was from the silenced television. The girl was sat up in bed, looking at him.

  “Anita?”

  “Who are you?” Her voice was soft and weak, full of sleep and confusion.

  “You’re safe.”

  “Where am I?”

  “A motel. Kowloon City. You’re safe now.”

  She seemed satisfied. She lay down again and closed her eyes. Harry made her sip some water, but she showed no sign of having ever been awake. He wiped her brow with a wet towel, but she seemed a little cooler now. Harry pulled the sheets up around her shoulders, sat back down in the chair, and watched her sleeping in the semi-darkness.

  *

  Harry woke early in the morning. He was still slumped in the chair. His ribs ached, but his arm felt better, if a little stiff in the shoulder. He pulled the curtains open, for the little light they afforded, and sat on the bed next to Anita. The fever had eased, and she appeared to be sleeping normally, her breathing deep and slow, but still didn’t react when he lifted her slightly to give her another pill and some water.

  He left her sleeping while he made himself instant coffee, took a shower, using the last clean towel, and went out to find some breakfast.

  Half an hour later, she was sat up in bed when he walked through the door and into the room. She looked pale, sickly, but awake. She watched him silently as he set shopping bags on the desk. He sat down in the chair and faced her.

  She just watched him for a minute, her eyes examining his face, his hair, his two-day stubble, his hands and clothes. Finally she said, “You had coffee. Can I have some coffee?”

  Harry stood up and turned the kettle on for coffee. Anita went on, “What’s all that shit in the bathroom. Is that mine?”

  “The vomit is yours. The blood is mine.”

  “Good.”
r />   Harry looked back at her over his shoulder. “Thanks a lot.”

  She half smiled, “You know what I mean.” She looked around the room. “This place is a real dump. You know that, I hope. Where are we? Come to that, who the fuck are you?”

  Harry made instant coffee for both of them in the motel’s cheap plastic cups. He put one by the bed for Anita. “I’m Harry. You’re in Kowloon.”

  “Harry,” she repeated. “We were in Sandra’s car. Are you a friend of hers?”

  “Not exactly. Sandra showed me where you were.”

  “Where’s Andrew?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the truth. Some bad men were after you. I had to get you out of there.”

  She went quiet again, and picked up her coffee, blowing on it to cool it down. “The bogie men again,” she said. Harry looked at her. She went on, “I dream a lot. There are always bad men.” She looked at him, her head cocked sideways, “Are you a bad man, Harry?”

  Harry looked her in the eye and thought about her dead father. He said, “You decide.”

  She seemed to accept this, and started looking around the motel room, at the bed and her clothes. “This was Sandra’s shirt. I remember her wearing it.” She pulled the front of the sweatshirt open and sniffed, “Christ! I fucking stink.”

  Harry indicated the new shopping bags, “I bought some fresh towels. And I got you a toothbrush. Why don’t you take a shower?”

  She climbed out of the bed, slowly, achingly. A grimace flashed across her face as she straightened her legs, holding onto the headboard. She pulled off the sweatshirt and left it on the bed. Her arms and legs looked very thin. Harry noticed the vomit stain he had missed, running down her dirty vest. She didn’t look at him, but took new towels and her coffee cup into the bathroom. Harry heard the click of the lock.