The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin (2 page)

‘The rules don’t allow it,’ she said.

‘What rules?’ he demanded, trying to curb the anger.

‘The rules by which the British expatriates live,’ she said.

He laughed, trying to relax her. She remained stiff in the seat beside him.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he pleaded.

‘I know them,’ she insisted. ‘Had them sweating over me at night and shoving past me in the street with their wives the following morning, contemptuous that I exist.’

‘Come on,’ he said, determinedly getting out of the vehicle.

He walked around to the passenger side, opening her door.

She stayed staring ahead.

‘Come on,’ he repeated.

She didn’t move.

‘Please,’ he said. He had begun to enunciate clearly, a man intending to show his words and judgment were unaffected by the mid-morning whisky back at the apartment.

She looked up at him, still unable to gauge the effect of drink upon him, but with a professional awareness of its dangers.

‘It’s a mistake,’ she warned him.

‘No it’s not,’ he said, reaching out for her.

Reluctantly she got out of the car. He took her arm, leading her to the verandah, gazing around defiantly for seats. There were two at the end, with a poor view of the sun-silvered bay and the township of Aberdeen beyond, but he hurried to them, ahead of another couple who emerged from inside the hotel.

The waiter was not slow in approaching them but Nelson began waving his hands, clapping them together for attention, and when the drinks were finally served Jenny spilled some of hers in the contagious nervousness and then used too much water trying to remove the stain. It meant there was a large damp patch on her skirt when they finally walked to the buffet line and then to the table he had reserved. Conscious of it, she walked awkwardly. At the table, she ate with her head bent over her plate, rarely looking up when he tried to speak to her.

‘They know,’ she said. ‘It’s like a smell to them.’

‘No one has even looked at us,’ he tried to reassure her.

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘They know. But to them I do not exist.’

The man whose job it had been to prevent Jenny Lin Lee setting up home with Robert Nelson and who had failed to frighten her was tied that night beneath the Red Star ferry that crosses the harbour from Kowloon to Hong Kong island in such a way that by straining upwards he could just keep his mouth free of the water, but not far enough for his shouts for help to be heard above the noise of the engine. It took several hours before he became completely exhausted and collapsed back into the water, to drown. And several days before the ropes slackened, releasing the body.

Some time later, already partially decomposed and attacked by fish, it surfaced against the sampans and junks that cling like seaweed to the island side of the harbour.

Knowing it not to be one of them, because sampan people never fall into the water, and with the gypsies’ suspicion of the official enquiries it would cause, they poled the corpse along from craft to craft, until it caught in the currents of the open water, near Kai Tak airport, and disappeared out to sea.

The man’s disappearance was never questioned. Nor wondered at. Nor reported, either.

2

Seven thousand miles and eight hours apart, there was another lunch that Sunday, as unsuccessful as that of Jenny Lin Lee and Robert Nelson.

Charlie Muffin drove carefully, habitually watchful for any car that remained too long behind. He was unused to the road, too, and was looking for the pub accorded three stars in the guide book. He hoped to Christ it was better than the one the previous week: cottage pie made from Saturday’s meat scraps, over-warm beer, a bill for £5 and indigestion until Wednesday. At least it had given him something to think about. He sighed, annoyed at the increasingly familiar self-pity. Last time it had almost killed him.

He glanced behind at the thought, checking again, and nearly missed what he was looking for. The Saxon Warrior lay back from the road, an instant antique of sculpted thatch over mock-Tudor beams. Inside he knew there would be mahoganied plastic, fruit machines in every bar and men wearing blazers and cravats solving Britain’s economic ills while they felt the milled edges of the coins in their pockets to decide if they could buy the next round of drinks.

‘Shit,’ said Charlie fervently. He pulled into the car park and looked at his watch. He hadn’t time to find an alternative. Not if he wanted to eat. All he had at the flat was cold beef.

Few people saw Charlie enter, because he didn’t want them to and had long ago perfected being unobtrusive. He reached the bar between a group of men to his left reallocating Britain’s oil wealth and a circle to his right undermining communist influence in Africa. The fruit machine was by the toilets. The people around had formed a kitty, in an effort to recover their money before closing time.

The barmaid was a blonde, tightly corseted woman with the bright smile that barmaids share with politicians. Charlie estimated she was about twenty years older than the pub.

‘Whisky,’ said Charlie, unwilling to risk the beer. There would be no danger, provided he restricted himself to two.

‘And lunch,’ he said, when the woman returned with the drink.

‘There’s mince,’ she offered doubtfully, looking behind her to the serving hatch.

‘No,’ said Charlie. At least last week they’d disguised it with instant mashed potato.

‘Bread and cheese?’

‘No.’

‘Beef salad?’

‘The guide book said three stars.’

‘Trouble in the kitchen.’

‘Bad day, then?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Beef salad,’ said Charlie, resigned. He’d overcooked the meat at home anyway.

The barmaid retreated to the kitchen hatch and Charlie looked around the bar, sipping his drink. There were pictures of men in flying gear standing alongside Battle of Britain aircraft, a propeller mounted over the bar and near the counter-flap a man who was obviously the landlord stood frequently touching the tips of a moustache that spread like wings across his face. Mechanic, guessed Charlie. He’d never met a World War II pilot who wore a moustache like that; something to do with the oxygen mask.

Professional as the barmaid, the landlord isolated a new face and detached himself from the African group, moving down the bar. As the man approached, Charlie was aware of the critical examination; the man kept any expression of distaste from his face. Charlie resolved to get his suit pressed. And perhaps a new shirt.

‘Afternoon.’

‘Afternoon.’

‘Sorry about the food. Fire in the kitchen.’

‘Can’t be helped,’ said Charlie.

‘Repaired by next weekend.’

‘Afraid I won’t be here then,’ said Charlie.

‘Didn’t think I recognised you. Just passing through?’

‘Just passing through,’ agreed Charlie. As always. Never the same place twice, always polite but distant in any conversation.

‘Nice part of the country.’

‘Very attractive.’

‘Been here since ’48,’ said the landlord, hand moving automatically to his moustache.

‘Straight after the war, then?’ said Charlie, joining in the performance. Why not? he thought.

‘More or less. You serve?’

‘Bit too young,’ said Charlie. ‘Berlin airlift was around my time.’

‘Not the same,’ dismissed the man.

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘Had a good war,’ said the landlord. ‘Bloody good war.’

Charlie avoided any reaction to the cliché. It sounded as obscene now as it had when he first heard it. The bastard who had taken over the department had had a good war. And tried to continue it, by setting him up to be killed.

‘There were a lot who didn’t,’ said Charlie.

The landlord looked at him curiously, alert for mocker) then relaxed.

‘Sorry for them,’ he said insincerely. ‘I enjoyed my time.’

His glass was empty, Charlie saw. He pushed it across to halt the reminiscence.

‘Could I have another? Large.’

‘Certainly.’

Charlie knew the man would expect to be bought a drink. But he decided against it, even though it was the first conversation he had had for more than twenty-four hours. He wondered how the man would react to know he was serving whisky to someone technically a traitor to his country.

The landlord returned with the drink and waited expectantly.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.

There was an almost imperceptible shrug as the man took the money and returned Charlie his change.

‘What line of business are you in, then?’ he asked, lapsing into the pub formula.

‘Traveller,’ said Charlie. It seemed the best description of the aimless life he now led. Even before Edith had been killed they had done little else but move nervously from one place to another.

‘Interesting,’ said the publican, as automatically as he fingered the moustache.

‘Sometimes,’ agreed Charlie.

The woman returned with the salad. The meat had been carefully cut to conceal the dried edges.

‘Looks very nice,’ said Charlie. Insincerity appeared to be infectious. Then again, it was always dangerous to draw attention to himself, even over something as trivial as complaining about a bad meal in a country pub. He manoeuvred himself on to a bar-stool and the landlord nodded and walked back to his group. Charlie sawed resolutely at the meat, examining his attitude. What right had he to criticise a man for whom the war had been the biggest experience of his life? Or feel contempt for opinionated Sunday lunchtime drinkers? Charlie was always honest with himself, because now there was no one else with whom he could share the trait. And he knew bloody well that he would have gladly handed over the fortune he possessed to change places with any one of them, walking stiff-kneed back to their detached, white-painted, executive-style homes to worry about their mortgages and their school fees and their secretaries’ becoming pregnant. His attitude wasn’t really contempt, he recognised. It was envy: envy for people who had wives and mistresses and friends. There was only one person whom Charlie could even think of as a friend. And there had been no contact from Rupert Willoughby for over a year. So perhaps he was even exaggerating that association.

He pushed away the meal half-eaten and immediately the barmaid took his plate.

‘Like that?’ she said.

‘Very nice,’ said Charlie. It was nearly closing time. She would be in a hurry to get away. He hesitated, decided against another drink and paid his bill. Another £5. And he was regarded as someone who had stolen money!

Back in the car, he sat for a moment undecided. If he took the B roads and drove slowly, it would be at least seven before he got back to London.

On the balcony of his apartment high on the island’s Middle Level, Robert Nelson stood, glass in hand.

‘Fantastic,’ he said, looking down at the
Pride of America
. The liner was an open jewel-case of glittering lights. Because it was late, the slur was more noticeable in his voice.

Beside him, Jenny Lin Lee said nothing.

‘I’ve taken six million of the cover,’ he announced, suddenly.

‘What?’ she asked, turning to him.

He smiled at her, wanting to boast.

‘Lu put the insurance out on the open market. Christ, you should have seen the scramble!’

‘But you got £6,000,000 of it?’

‘Yes,’ he said, missing the urgency in her voice. ‘Beat the bloody lot of them.’

He frowned at her lack of reaction.

‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ he complained, petulant in his drunkenness. ‘No one else got anything like that much. There’s already been a cable of congratulation from London, signed by Willoughby himself. Even promised a bonus on top of the commission …’

‘If it’s important for you, then I’m pleased,’ she said, turning away from the balcony and the view of the floodlit ship, shifting slowly at anchor.

He followed her into the room.

‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I find it completely impossible to understand you.’

She stood in the middle of the room, a slim, almost frail figure, the hair which she constantly used for dramatic effect cascading to her waist because she knew he liked it worn that way and it was inherent in her to please the man she was with.

She walked to him, smiling for the first time, cupping his head and pulling his face to hers.

‘I love you, Robert,’ she said. ‘Really love you.’

He held her at arm’s length, looking at her.

‘Why tell me that?’ he asked.

‘Because I wanted you to know.’

The noise of the explosion woke Nelson and the girl four nights later, as it woke nearly everyone on the island and the Kowloon waterfront. By the time Nelson got to the balcony, the flames were already spurting from the stem and as he watched there was a noise like a belch and the blaze gushed through the main funnels of the
Pride of America.

A gradual glow in the stern was the first indication that there was fire there too, then one of the plates split and huge orange gouts burst out, like a giant exhaust.

‘Oh my God,’ said Nelson softly. He was very sober.

Beside him, the girl remained silent.

Because it was dark, neither could see that the water with which the fire boats were already attacking the blaze was still stained with the welcoming dye. It looked like blood.

3

Lu had wanted to hold his press conference on the
Pride of America.
But the engine-room explosions had blown away plates below the waterline, settling the liner to top-deck level in the water, and the harbour surveyors forbade the meeting as too dangerous. Instead the ship-owner led a small flotilla of boats out to the still smoking, blackened hull, wheeling around and around in constant focus for the cameras, the customary silk suit concealed beneath protective oilskins and the hard-hat defiantly inscribed ‘The University of Freedom’. John Lu was by his side.

The millionaire waited four days after the fire for the maximum number of journalists to gather and then took over the main conference room in the Mandarin Hotel to accommodate them. He entered still carrying the hat and put it down on the table so that the title would show in any photographs.