to make sure it was a single. Mr Chin was a great believer in the power of money and liked to say that ‘cash is king’.
‘Here, take as bonus. Now leave premise. Come back Monday for work at normal time. Come back more normal. Normal girl with friend and so on.’ He leaned back in his Komfort King and patted his chest with authority. ‘Order of kind and generous boss.’
I felt a jolt. The chalk message from the gardens flashed through my mind: ‘HAIL TO THE KING OF KINGS. HE IS THE KINDEST BOSS.’
‘One-time offer only.’ Mr Chin zipped up his money belt and tucked it back inside his shirt where it protruded like the stomach of an Australian lager drinker. He looked at me again but with an expression flickering between kindness and irritation. From experience, I knew that irritation was the more dominant of Mr Chin’s moods and sprang into action before it could settle over him.
I slipped on my cardigan and, leaning down, opened my file drawer, taking care to roll it slowly. The hypnotherapist had not cured me of my bad habits but I had discovered that with concentration, I could control my impulse to yank the drawer open. I had also been training myself to chew my cuticles instead of my nails. This habit gave me almost the same pleasure as nail biting but allowed my fingernails to grow. In the week since my visit to Industry Drive, my nails had developed a ridge and I was now able to pick up coins and even scratch my forearms where the wool of my cardigan rubbed. It was a new sensation and thoroughly enjoyable.
Mr Chin nodded as I removed the fan of twenty-pound notes from his desk and folded them into my new vinyl purse. Neither of us spoke but I had no illusions about the gravity of the moment. He had set me a formidable task and had given me the means to achieve it by Monday. It was a challenge and I knew from reading about Sir Edmund Percival Hillary that challenges were an integral part of character building. I wanted to be a better person and win Mr Chin’s approval. Indeed, my future depended on it.
It was Sir Edmund who once said, ‘It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves,’ which is quite a profound statement when you think about it. He certainly knew what he was talking about. He was the first person to reach the summit of Mount Everest, the highest mountain in the world. Mountain climbing is a rigorous activity and carries considerable risk. I would not like to die on a mountainside or lose a nose or fingers to frostbite. Fortunately, Sir Edmund never lost any facial features or extremities. After his adventures, he returned to beekeeping, which is a job that requires considerable manual dexterity.
4
The idea of normality was flashing in my mind’s eye like the rotating beacon of a lighthouse as I made my way down the office stairs. The stairwell was pitch dark but I knew the width and squeak of every stair by heart. I used to run up and down the stairs until Mr Chin forbade it: ‘This run, run, run get on my nerve. Walk up stair at normal human speed or forget interesting and exciting job.’
The stairwell lights do not work because their electrical supply is connected to the faulty circuitry of the cinema. It would cost hundreds of thousands of pounds to rewire the Babylon and make the building fireproof, which had been the original plan when the council purchased it from its bankrupt owner in 1990. The Babylon was going to be refurbished and turned into a centre of local culture and history with photo panels and audiovisual displays. This plan was one of the first things to go when Jerry Clench became mayor. Mr Clench was not interested in the cinema’s architecture or its historical value. It was an eyesore and a fleapit, he said. He not only refused to allocate funds for its renovation but also said there was no budget to have it pulled down.
Mr Chin is more than happy with the dark stairwell because it discourages people from visiting the office. He had the reinforced metal doors installed after a boy scout carrying a plastic donation bucket made it to the landing with the aid of his pocket torch. The boy’s arrival had sent Mr Chin into a frenzy. He began screeching and waving a length of green bamboo around his head. After the boy had fled, I asked Mr Chin why he was so upset.
‘Foolish and stupid!’ he shouted, shoving the bamboo back into his personal storeroom. ‘You understand nothing.’
‘About boy scouts?’
‘About criminal people.’
‘Criminal? Boy scouts assist the elderly.’ I had read only good things about scouts and their love of the outdoors. ‘They know their roots and berries.’
‘Root and berry! Ha!’ Mr Chin wagged his finger at me. ‘Never trust such person. Maybe such person is spy and thief.’
‘He was wearing an official uniform.’
‘Uniform mean nothing. Worst crook in Hong Kong that is so-call police and military wear uniform.’ Mr Chin pounded the top of his desk with a fist. ‘Here office for private and personal business. Trespasser and other strictly forbidden.’
‘But—’
‘Enough of but! This but, but, but get on my nerve!’
He chopped the air with his hand to end the conversation. His face had flushed angry red and stayed that way for several minutes. Later that evening, I made a note in the CHIN subsection of my OBSERVATIONS ring binder: ‘Scouts upset Mr Chin. Suspicious of uniforms. To be followed up.’
The door clicked shut behind me and I paused for my eyes to adjust to the dim light under the awning. Out of habit, I turned to examine the old movie stills in the display case but as I did this, my foot touched something solid and organic. I looked down and saw a boy, curled up asleep on a square of cardboard. It is not unusual to find people sleeping in doorways in the centre of town. Unemployment is high and the list for council housing is long. But I had never seen anyone so young sleeping so unprotected.
‘Hello,’ I said.
The boy’s eyes flicked open. He scrambled to a crouch.
‘You’re not a cop,’ he said, looking me up and down.
‘No.’
‘Social services?’
I shook my head. ‘I work in the office upstairs.’
The boy assumed his full height, which was at least a head shorter than me. He was thin and pre-pubescent with fierce blue eyes and a tight lipless mouth. I could not see the top of his head for a dirty red baseball cap but the stubble around his ears was blond. He looked about ten years old. On his cheek was a furry birthmark. It was brown and perfectly round like a two-pence piece.
‘Got a spare fiver?’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
‘Why do you want five pounds?’
‘Why do you think?’ The boy scowled at me from under the cap.
I had just read an article in the Cockerel about boys sniffing industrial chemicals. The newspaper referred to them as ‘feral’ and said they terrorised the town in gangs and vandalised public property. I had never encountered a gang of savage children but I was very familiar with vandalism. ‘To buy paint thinner?’
‘Do I look that stupid?’
‘It’s hard to tell.’
‘Well, you definitely look stupid.’ The boy pointed to my trousers. ‘What the hell do you call those?’
‘Tartan trousers.’ I did not bother
