Covet (25 page)

Thirteen…

As many in Wan Chai slept, and others partied with strangers and friends in discos and bars, Ed Brown was wide-awake and focused on his future in his solitary bedroom.

Neon signage glowed through the open window from the strip outside, filling the space with a feverish pink hue. The door was pulled shut, the Prison Lady asleep in the next bedroom. Ed was confident that she would not be able to hear his movements above the incessant street noise. He was confident that she would not attempt to bother him tonight. He had time to think, to plan.

Ed had his nose to the wooden floor. His feet were propped up on the bed, elevated half a metre above his head. His whole body strained with the effort of keeping braced and steady. His obliques twitched. His shoulders ached with lactic burn. Blood began to rush to his head. With a steady, slow effort, he pushed up with his arms and back down again.

Fourteen…

With a slightly strained exhalation, he executed another push-up. Up and down.

Fifteen…

It was good to have space to think. The Prison Lady agreed that it wasn’t proper for them to sleep in the same bed until they were married, but he knew she was growing impatient. She would expect a proper proposal soon. It mattered little. Soon he would have no further need of her.

Tomorrow Ed would stake out the model agency for Makedde again. He hoped for more success this time, but even if his prize did not appear, he probably had a few more days to find her before there was a risk that she would leave the country. And if she went to Canada he could follow her there too, with the help of the Prison Lady again under the guise of a happily married couple. He would follow her wherever she went until he had her. But he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He did not want to risk travelling through customs and immigration again, and he did not want the Prison Lady around for much longer, if he could avoid it. But most of all, Ed had waited so long—a whole year and a half since his moment with Makedde had been so rudely disrupted by Andy Flynn—and he didn’t want to wait any longer.

If by tomorrow afternoon he had still not found her, he would have to take further measures.

Eighteen…

Ed’s triceps began to shake, his shoulders tiring. A line of sweat ran from his forehead to his eyebrow.

Nineteen…

Once he knew his time frame for having Makedde, he would be much happier. The time frame dictated the amount of risk that would be involved in kidnapping her, and how long he had to suss out some good, quiet areas for his purpose in Hong Kong.

Twenty…

Much was still up in the air, but it had been an important day for Ed. He had successfully entered Hong Kong without interference or detection. He was out of the clutches of the idiot Australian police force. He had located Makedde’s model agency—it hadn’t been hard, he’d just phoned her Sydney agent, and familiarised himself with some of the areas she might frequent. Things were going well. If only he could think of some way to find out where she was staying. Who would be willing to tell him? What story would convince them?

Twenty-one…

Having finished his fifth set of twenty-one push-ups, Ed let himself down and turned over onto his back. Some things still bothered him, things he was still mulling over, searching for satisfactory conclusions. He knew it would be risky for him to return to Australia. That was unfortunate. In choosing a reunion with Makedde above all else, he had forsaken his homeland. And it would be close to impossible to get Makedde to travel back with him, no matter what means he used. He’d dreamed for so long of spending time with her there, in those familiar surroundings he had grown up with. He’d envisaged tying her up
in his garage and keeping her for weeks. There he could do what he wanted—indulge in simple pleasures like walking around the block while she waited for him, bound and gagged; speaking to her, telling her his every secret and wish; closing the door and leaving her in the dark if he so pleased; feeding her by hand; touching her. And when the time was right, he would perform the final act of possession, and take from her the souvenirs he’d been robbed of before. Destiny demanded it. He had a set-up for her room planned out in his head, and in Sydney he knew where to get the things he needed—binds, metal trays, tools, equipment, sterile gauze, anaesthetic, formaldehyde. But those dreams could not come true now, not exactly the way he had imagined them. He was busy forming other ideas. He would adapt, now that everything had changed. He
would
spend time with her, just as he wanted, taking as long as he wished until he was satisfied. That part was certain. If that had to be in Hong Kong, then so be it. He would find a way.

And there was the issue of how it would be afterwards. It was hard to see beyond such a goal. Would he stay in Asia indefinitely? Take on a new life? He might never see his mother, or Australia, again. He had mixed feelings about that. And without Mother, what would he do for money?

Troubled, Ed scrambled to his feet, slipped his shoes on and collected his jacket. He cleaned his hands with some Clean Wipe tissues and pocketed a small packet of them for later. He slid twenty
Hong Kong dollars into his pocket. The Prison Lady’s cash was fast running out.

It was time to trawl the bars on the strip, he decided. Perhaps he would find a way to get some money, or even better, perhaps tonight was the night he would find Makedde.

He opened his bedroom door cautiously, and finding the living room empty, ventured to the bathroom to splash water on his face and wash his hands—twice, three times—before going out.

Can you feel me, Mak? Can you feel me coming?

Put your stilettos on for me.

It is our destiny.

‘Hey, what’s your name? Ummm, Macayly right?’

Makedde looked up from her menu at Gabby, the abrasive English model from her apartment. Sitting hunched in her chair in a silk singlet with her bony shoulders jutting out and dark make-up smudged around her feline eyes, she looked even more rail thin than she had the night before. When Gabby stood she looked as if her body had been stretched.

‘It’s pronounced
Mak-kay-dee
, actually,’ Mak told her. ‘But you can call me Mak.’

After the Ely Garner show, the American girl, Jen, had invited Mak to join her and some other models for a late dinner at a restaurant called Che’s. There were eight models in all, dressed in the usual uniform of fashionably sloppy jeans and skimpy tops.

‘
Mak.
Right,’ Gabby huffed in response, as if she didn’t care what the name was and would no doubt mispronounce it again.

Jen, seated to the left of Gabby, beamed at Mak. She and Gabby were chalk and cheese. Jen was fresh-faced with a cheerful Midwest accent, as
wholesome as freshly cut hay and apple pie. She hadn’t been around the apartment much since Mak arrived, but Mak already liked her. Gabby, on the other hand, was a pouting drama queen for whom a smouldering cigarette and unwelcoming attitude seemed permanent attachments.

‘Red or white,’ Gabby asked—or snarled. It was hard to tell.

‘Red thanks.’

‘Everyone else? Red, yes?’ She called the waiter over. ‘We’d like two bottles of your Canonbah Bridge shiraz.’

The waiter nodded and scurried away.

‘So is this a regular hang-out for you guys?’ Mak asked Jen. She felt it was better to address the friendlier of the two models she knew. She’d hardly caught the names of the others. ‘I have to admit that I thought immediately of Cuban food when you said “Che’s”.’

Jen looked blank.

‘Because of Che Guevara,’ Mak explained.

‘No, this is a Chinese restaurant,’ Jen replied, still not registering. ‘It’s owned by one of the local movie stars! We hope he’ll come in later,’ she gushed excitedly.

The fact that the restaurant was traditional Cantonese had not escaped Mak’s attention. It was hard to miss the tanks of fish and the opulent gilded décor. There were even jars of mysterious dried substances in cases along one wall.

‘That would be so great if he shows up!’ Jen blurted, evidently still thinking of her movie star.

Gabby nodded vaguely, not interested enough to speak on the matter of Hong Kong movie stars or the Cuban revolution. Mak wondered just how old—or young—Jen was. She went back to studying her menu. She quickly realised that deciphering the items on offer would be a challenge. This was not exactly Ming’s on Quadra Street.

‘Um, can anyone tell me what Double-boiled Sweet Superior Bird’s Nest is?’ she asked. There was laughter from those on her side of the table.

‘It’s bird spit,’ the model beside her said in a disturbingly familiar Australian accent. He leaned forward and grinned at her mischievously. He was a deeply tanned bloke with unkempt hair, a ripped $300 T-shirt and Tsubi jeans—the advertising industry’s version of a Bondi surfer. His name was Shawn.

‘Bird spit,’ Mak replied flatly. She raised an eyebrow and waited for the joke.

‘I’m not shitting you. It’s bird spit. A delicacy.’

Mak regretted that she had unwittingly sat next to the only Australian at the table.
What if he recognises me from the press about the trial?
Instinctively, she buried her face in the menu.

Hmmm. Ducks’ Jaws in Maggi Sauce. Snake Fillet with Chinese Herbal Medicine. Pig’s Colon in Soya. Elephant Trunk Shellfish. The menu read like
Ripley’s Believe it or Not.
Sea Whelk. Twenty-five-headed Abalone. And there was a whole section devoted to something called ‘Conpoys’. There were probably things here that weren’t even legal in her native Canada.

Leaning across the table, Mak whispered to Jen. ‘Help, what the heck is a conpoy?’

Jen pointed at the jars of strange-looking shriveled lumps stacked along one wall. ‘Sun-dried scallops. They’re big on conpoys here.’

Right. Perhaps I’ll just stick to steamed vegetables
, Mak thought. Her usual philosophy when travelling was to throw herself into local culture and customs, but tonight the thought of exotic food was repellent. She had a headache and felt vaguely queasy. Was it just jetlag—or was something more sinister doing her head in?

She spoke sternly to herself.
Get a grip, Mak. You’re in Hong Kong. You are safe. Ed is not here. You are safe…

‘Hello, you looking for company?’

The accent was exotic, from somewhere Ed didn’t recognise. He stared impassively at the girl who had approached him—at her dark brown eyes and golden skin, and her large puffy lips, and though he said nothing she did not move away. She batted her eyelashes and smiled. She had tiny pimples all over her forehead, and she smelled faintly of yeast.

‘What do you want?’ he said.

‘You want company? You very
handsome
.’

The petite Filipina girl was not at all attractive to Ed. She wore chunky sandals with a miniskirt and her toes were awful and squarish. She had not even painted them. Her feet revolted him.

‘No, I do not want company.’

‘You have wife?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I have a wife.’

He still had the frozen guy’s gold wedding band on his finger. There had been a time when Ed used to wear one like it at least once a week, on his nights off when he was cruising for girls. He used to enjoy polishing it up. Over the years he had learned that it put girls at ease to think he was on his way home to
a wife. It made him seem harmless. The wedding band sealed the deal, when the offer of a lift home in the rain from a kindly bespectacled good Samaritan was tempting, but not quite tempting enough to make a girl let her guard down and get into his van.
‘I have to be home for dinner any minute, but I saw you walking by yourself and I thought you looked lost. You looked like you might need help. It’s not safe around here you know…’
For the others, the hookers and the strippers, money was usually enough to get them into the van. If they refused, he would simply offer more money, and more, until they gave in.

Ed had bought his ring at a garage sale—a funny thing to sell, he’d thought—and now it was sitting somewhere in police custody in a small cardboard box of measly possessions labelled
Edward Brown.
Ed could replace the ring, but he couldn’t replace the other things the police had stolen from him. He desperately missed his souvenirs. He had been so proud of them. Over the years he had painstakingly collected several of his girls’ toes, only the best ones severed neatly from the foot, in a shoebox in his bedroom. It had taken patience and practice to make the incisions neatly and perfect the method by which to store them. He had even kept one whole foot in formaldehyde in a jar and it had been a beautiful artefact, one he had enjoyed looking at often. She’d had perfect, symmetrical toes, the nails manicured and painted red. Just perfect. The curve of her arch had been exquisitely formed. Now he would never see that arch again.

‘Want to drink with me?’ It was the young dark girl again. She was still hanging about, smiling at him and twirling her black hair between the fingers of one hand. She rested the other hand on his arm, the long, chipped, artificial pink nails touching his bare wrist.

‘Go away!’ Ed snapped and pulled away. If she was even half worth the effort he would cut her open right there on the tiled floor of the disco. That would shut her up. That would stop her touching him.

The girl recoiled at his response, and finally left him alone. He saw her retreat to her girlfriends, with whom she exchanged some words. They looked at him with scowls and then looked away. One of them pointed out a tall fat man in a suit standing alone at the bar, and the girl approached him next.

Ed surveyed the room. No Makedde Vanderwall. There were lots of American and Australian men, and a lot of Asian girls. Was this where he would find Makedde?

He finished his cheap drink and slumped on his stool. How long would it take to find her? And once he had her, where could he keep her, and for how long? The beats of the disco music rang in his head, the flashing dance floor blurring in his vision. He felt tiredness set in. The jet lag and the time difference had begun to catch up. He would walk back to the apartment, perhaps after one more lap around the strip.

I will find you soon, Makedde.

You can’t hide from me.