Dragon Head - A Beatrix Rose Thriller: Hong Kong Stories Volume 1 (Beatrix Rose's Hong Kong Stories Book 3) (5 page)

She stepped up to the bead curtain. She swept it aside with her right hand as she reached into her bag for the Baby Glock with her left. The door opened into a small hallway with a flight of stairs directly ahead. A desk was crammed against one wall, leaving barely enough space for it to be passed. A woman was at the desk. The
mamasan
. She was a blowsy broad-shouldered woman. She was reading a dog-eared paperback and looked up as she heard the tinkling of the beads.

She said something in Mandarin. A query and then, as Beatrix dropped the bags and advanced, a protest. Beatrix made no effort to translate, but it didn’t matter. She stepped up to the desk and punched the woman square in the face. She toppled backwards and fell off her stool. Beatrix slid around the table, crouched over the woman and punched her again. Her eyes rolled back and closed.

She transferred the Glock to her right hand, slipped her finger through the guard and put a little pressure on the trigger.

The stairs were bare, with pictures of J-Pop stars plastered to the wall.

She climbed.

The first-floor landing was larger than the hallway downstairs. There was a long sofa upholstered in stained red fabric. Five girls sat on it. They were all in their underwear, and they looked up with a boredom that curdled into hostility when they saw that she was not a customer. Hostility turned to fear as they noticed the Glock. There were four doors off the hallway. Beatrix heard grunting from behind one of them, the creaking of floorboards and the rhythmic bang of a headboard as it clattered against a thin plaster wall.

The man had said the third floor, so she climbed.

The second floor was the same. It was lit by a row of lights with orange shades. A woman with badly dyed hair sat on a wooden stool and hid her face behind a newspaper. Another four doors, with noise coming from behind two of them. One of the doors opened and a Chinese man stepped out into the hallway, hoisting up his trousers. He saw Beatrix, and was about to say something, but then he saw the Glock in her hand and thought better of it. He pressed himself against the wall as she walked by. Beatrix glanced inside the door and saw a naked woman, wiping herself, her clothes draped over the end of her bed.

She climbed. The higher she got, the more vulnerable she felt. More people between her and the exit. No time to worry about that. The building didn’t look as if it had a fire escape. The only way out was to go back down the stairs. She wouldn’t have long to get Grace and get out. Someone would have seen her. The woman downstairs might come around. The man who had come out of the bedroom. The girl inside. The girls waiting for trade. Any of them could raise the alarm.

She reached the third floor. It was the top of the building. Another hallway with four doorways.

She raised the Glock, approached the first door and opened it.

Empty.

She tried the second.

A man and woman, both naked, asleep on the bed.

The third.

It was locked with a deadbolt.

She slid the bolt back and opened the door.

A bed, a dresser and a single wooden chair. A large fern in a planter. A round mirror on the wall. Faded wallpaper, peeling in places, pustulated with mould.

A girl was on the bed, sitting against the headboard, her legs drawn up beneath her chin.

“Grace.”

She moved her head and looked across the room. She was expressionless. If she recognised Beatrix, she did not show it. Beatrix saw the purple contusion across her cheekbone. It extended all the way down the right of her face to her chin. She was wearing a simple red dress with thin straps and Beatrix saw another bruise on her right shoulder, the discolouration running down her torso until it was hidden beneath the fabric.

Her anger kindled.

She heard an angry voice from the ground floor.

She made her voice as soft as she could. “
Grace
.”

The girl turned her head away and stared at the wall.

Beatrix heard the sound of feet pounding up a staircase below.

She stepped into the room, took the girl by the wrist and pulled, gently easing her off the bed.

She heard more voices. Doors opened and slammed. An outraged protest.

Beatrix led the way out of the bedroom. The second door was open now, the naked man she had seen before looking at the stairs. He heard Beatrix and turned. She shook her head, showed him the Glock, and indicated that he should go back inside. He did. The door closed again.

She held Grace’s hand and led her down the stairs, the pistol held out before her. She descended into the first-floor hallway. The women were still there, and their attention swung away as two men ascended from the opposite side. They were wearing tracksuit tops and jeans and they had cleavers in their hands. One man had tattoos on his face. Beatrix shot him first, adjusted her aim with a flick of her wrist, and shot the other. The pistol was small, but it was unsuppressed and it barked loudly. The women screamed and scuttled as far away from her as they could. She led Grace across the hall to the stairs. The girl stopped at the bodies. Beatrix stooped and picked her up, her left arm holding the girl against her body while she held out the pistol in her right.

“Put your arms around my neck.”

Grace did as she was told and held on.

Beatrix negotiated the final flight of stairs. The woman she had knocked out had disappeared and her table had been overturned. Beatrix paused at the foot of the stairs and collected the two bags that she had left there. She listened. She heard the noise of the street outside, cars passing, raised voices, an argument. She stepped around the table and parted the curtain of beads. There was a car parked at the kerb that hadn’t been there before, blocking the flow of traffic. The car was empty. She waited for another five seconds, scanning left and right, but she saw nothing.

She put the Baby Glock in her bag and, still carrying the girl, merged into the flow of pedestrians.

SHE HURRIED with Grace to the MTR. She took the girl to the public bathroom and, behind the locked door of a cubicle, encouraged her to change out of the dress. Her body was horribly bruised. She tried not to look at them as she helped her to dress in the jeans, t-shirt and thin jumper that she had bought for her earlier.

Beatrix led the way onto the concourse, bought tickets for them both from the machine, and descended to the platform. There was a short wait for the next train. Beatrix walked away from the entrance to the platform and turned so that she was facing it. There had been no time to check that they were not being followed, and she knew Ying well enough to know that he wouldn’t react well to what she had just done. She concentrated on keeping herself under control, suppressing the seethe of anger that was commanding her to go back to the brothel and murder every last pimping bastard that she could find.

The train arrived.

They rode the Tsuen Wan Line north to Yau Ma Tei and changed to the Kwun Tong Line.

Beatrix could not stop herself from asking the question. When they were seated again, she took both of Grace’s hands in hers.

“What did they—” She stopped, unsure how to ask the question that she needed to ask. “Did they make you do anything?”

Grace stared back at her. She didn’t speak. Her face was blank, like a mask. There had been light in her eyes before. They had sparkled when she laughed, even after everything that had happened to her. But the light was gone now. It had been extinguished. It was a more eloquent answer than anything she could have said.

Beatrix drew the girl to her and hugged her. Grace shuffled across the seat and moved awkwardly into Beatrix’s embrace, stiff and unresponsive. Beatrix held her and waited for her to relax, but she did not. Beatrix felt the sting of tears in her eyes and, immediately after that, the burn of fury. All of her rage, the dripped poison that she had been collecting since Control’s agents had torn her life straight down the middle three months ago, overflowed the inadequate vessel into which she had been collecting it.

The train rumbled north to Kowloon Tong. They disembarked and Beatrix led the way to the East Rail Line and the final run to the border at Lo Wu.

“Don’t worry,” she said, hating herself even as she said it. “It’s over now. I have you. They can’t get to you. You’re safe.”

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was as blank as her face.

“You said that before.”

The repudiation stung bitterly. She couldn’t be angry about it.

The girl was right.

What had happened was her fault.

Chau had erred, but it was at her direction.

It was her fault.

THE CHECKPOINT was a short distance from Lo Wu station. Beatrix led the way, gripping Grace’s hand tightly in hers. She waited until the platform was clear before she took the Glock, the magazine and the knife and dropped them into an empty trash can. She hoped that she wouldn’t need weapons now, but she wasn’t about to risk taking them across the border.

The crossing was straightforward enough: two buildings connected by a long bridge. They made their way across it and descended the stairs into a large hall with a long queue of people, waiting for passport control. Beatrix handed over their passports and arrival cards and waited for them to be checked by the surly guard. The woman stared at them, bored beyond words, before she grunted something unintelligible at her.

“Excuse me?”

She repeated it. Beatrix’s Mandarin wasn’t good enough to translate it.

Grace replied for her. The guard asked another question. Grace answered again and the guard pushed their passports back over the desk so that Beatrix could collect them.

Beatrix knew not to wait. She kept a firm grip on Grace’s hand and walked straight ahead until they were out of the main doors and outside.

“What did she say?”

“She ask who you were. I said you were friend of my mother.”

“Well done.”

The girl didn’t reply and, in moments, the glazed look returned to her face.

Beatrix looked around.

China.

They were in a large public square with Shenzhen Railway Station on one side and Luohu Commercial City on the other. She led the way to the railway station.

“You said you had relatives in Tianjin,” she said. “Your aunt? If you want, I’ll take you to her.”

The girl didn’t reply.

“You can’t stay in Hong Kong. It’s not safe. The man who”—she paused, clenching her teeth—“
took
you, he is dangerous. And he won’t just let you stay. You have to leave now. I’m sorry, but…there’s no other choice.”

She just looked at her feet and let Beatrix lead her on.

“Grace, talk to me.”

“It is fine,” she said. “I understand. But you do not have to come with me. I can go myself.”

“No,” Beatrix retorted at once. “I’m coming, too.”

I’ve let you down once.

I’m never letting you down again.

THE TRAIN from Shenzhen to Beijing was scheduled to take thirteen hours. It was known as the “Jingjiu” and ran non-stop. The bullet trains that the Chinese were so proud of did not yet serve this marathon route and, as they approached the platform, Beatrix saw the locomotive. It was an olive-green diesel engine, ugly and powerful, with big shoulders and a yellow-striped snout. The train, a quarter of a mile from end to end, was comprised of sixteen blocky carriages painted in high-gloss white with blue racing stripes.

Beatrix took out their tickets and showed them to one of the female attendants. She gleamed a regulation smile at Beatrix before directing her to the third carriage along. Another similarly glossy attendant took over when they reached the correct car, showing them inside to their sleeper compartment.

Hundreds of passengers aboard this train were wedged into seats designated only as
hard
or
soft
. Beatrix had bought tickets in soft sleeper class, a separate compartment with bunks and antimacassars and a loudspeaker in the ceiling that proved impossible to turn off until she pulled the grille away and pulled out the wiring. The compartment had four bunks, each of which was furnished with a mattress that was significantly more comfortable than those in the “hard sleeper” compartments. They had room, so they were able to choose whether to sleep on the upper or lower bunk. They both chose the lower and sat quietly as the train rolled out of the station, and stayed there for another thirty minutes until Beatrix suggested that they find the dining car for some food.

“That would be nice.”

Beatrix felt that she was finally making progress.

The dining car was pleasant, with neat tables covered with starched white tablecloths and comfortable seats. They ordered rice and vegetables and looked out of the window into the darkness as they ate them, the gloomy landscape rushing by.

They had been eating in silence until Grace rested her chopsticks across her bowl and asked Beatrix what she was going to do.

“What do you mean?”

“Where will you go? After this?”

“Back,” she said.

“Hong Kong?”

She nodded.

“Why? It is not safe for you, too, is it?”

“I can look after myself, Grace.”

“Stay in Beijing. Or go somewhere else. Why go back to Hong Kong? Triad will find you.”

She watched the emerald-green paddies, rushing by on the other side of the glass, and thought about how going back was a foolish move. “I have a friend there,” she said.

“Mr. Chau?”

She said yes. “I told him I would protect him if he helped me find you, and he did. I have to see him. I’ll try to persuade him to leave.”

“And if he will not?”

“That’ll be up to him, then.”

“But you will leave?”

She paused at that. The smart thing to do would be to get away, put a thousand miles between her and Ying, and try to forget all about it. And yet…and yet, she couldn’t do it. She knew that she would never be able to forgive herself if she ran. Ying had done something unconscionable. She had killed men for much, much less. He owed for that, and she would collect.

There would be blood.