Mr Wong Goes West (7 page)

Sinha thought about this. ‘I should think so. After all, her face is on all the cash. It’s on all the coins, and all the notes. She owns all the cash, in a sense. They are all just portraits of her. I think she probably won’t personally hand you an envelope stuffed with fivers but she can arrange for one of her staff to do just that. She has teams of men and women to do that sort of thing for her.’

‘Ladies in waiting, they’re called,’ Joyce put in.

Chong-li agreed. ‘Yes. They flit around with wads of money in their handbags to hand to people just like you.’

Wong allowed himself a slight upturn of the lips. It was possible that Arun Daswani may get his money on time after all. And if the Queen was as rich as his fellow members of the Singapore Union of Industrial Mystics believed she was, then there would be lots left over to go into his pocket.

This was worth celebrating. He held up his hand to get the attention of Ah-Fat, who was walking past with a steaming dish of something that smelled like a small animal marinated in mouth-searing chilli. ‘One more of everything,’ Wong yelled.

In the days of the supremacy of the southern kingdom, a man with an iron hammer told the people of north Yunnan that he was stronger than any of their village leaders.

He approached a village made of wood and smashed it with his hammer.

He approached a village made of bronze and smashed it with his hammer.

He approached a village made of stone and smashed it with his hammer.

Soon, everyone worshipped the man with the hammer.

But not the hermit who lived in a small bamboo grove.

‘Knock down my home, and I will worship you too,’ said the hermit.

The man swung his hammer at the bamboo grove. But the rods of bamboo bent with the blow and then sprang
upright again. Many times, the man with the hammer swung at the bamboo grove. But he could do it no harm.

Blade of Grass, weakness is a type of strength. When an oxcart passes through a village, everyone sees it coming and gets out of the way. But when a blind man is crossing the road, the oxcart driver has to stop.

From ‘Some Gleanings of Oriental Wisdom’
by CF Wong.

It was restlessness personified. Hong Kong was a frenetic, shaking, entrancing, annoying, gorgeous, mad city perched on the edge of the South China Sea. Gloriously asymmetrical, it was a splat of angular glass excrescences scattered arbitrarily over a series of giant rocks on the edge of the ocean. Everything in it was a statement, and always a loud one: the harbour was jammed with boats; the waterfront crammed with skyscrapers; the pavements packed with people; the sky chock-a-block with aircraft, helicopters and advertising blimps; the air filled with noise, noise, noise,
noise
. And at the heart of it was the main island, bursting with office buildings, apartment blocks and company headquarters carrying names that were visionary, boastful, grandiloquent and crass: Tycoon Court and Wealthy Mansions and Rich Genius Limited.

Then there were the hotels. What magnificence. What style. What opulence. What grandiosity. What tastelessness.

Joyce screamed as soon as she entered the hotel foyer, a short sharp yelp of sound bursting from the fists at her mouth: ‘IIIEEEE!’

Robbie Manks, the royal consultant, seemed to jump out of his skin and then stared at her. Wong stepped smartly away from his assistant, a much practised manoeuvre on his part. The hum of conversation between hotel guests and staff at the
lobby desks instantly vanished. Everyone turned to look at the newcomers.

Manks, a PR man who clearly loathed attracting attention to himself, was the first to react. He scanned the room. What had she seen that could have caused such a response? ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

Joyce stared around her, an insane grin on her lips. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You just screamed?’

‘Oh, that. I was just—I was just happy. I can’t
believe
we’re staying here. This is
so
amazing. I only ever get to stay in YMCAs or with mates if I come somewhere expensive like Hong Kong. But this—this must be the sheeshiest hotel in the place.’

Wong tried to give Manks a knowing look, as if to say:
See what I have to put up with?

‘Well, if there’s no problem…er…let’s check in shall we?’

Joyce squealled again (a little less dramatically) when she saw the luxurious black marble check-in desk and staff wearing black silk uniforms with gold trimmings.

Manks’s expression became anxious, probably anticipating the shriek of excitement that would erupt from her on catching sight of their, no doubt to them, extravagantly appointed rooms.

The royal public relations officer was forty-six, suave, and impeccably well-dressed in a Gieves & Hawkes suit. He was handsome, despite an overlarge forehead and thinning straw-coloured hair, and he had a warm smile and engaging manner. He had met them at the airport with an exaggerated Ian Fleming Englishness, which may or may not have been ironic: ‘The name’s Manks. Robbie Manks.’ He’d quickly explained that he was not officially retained by the royal family, but had his own PR company, which did a lot of work for them
because of its reputation for quality, efficiency and discretion—the three things the royals sought above all else. Some of the stories he told Wong and Joyce during the taxi ride from the airport to the hotel suggested that his past twenty years had been professionally rather challenging, as it had more or less coincided with a long period of loss of face for the British monarchy. (He referred to them as ‘The Family’ with something in his tone of voice assigning capital initials to the phrase.) Manks clearly loathed the British press, whom he blamed for the majority of the problems. He saw the journalistic profession as a group of low scum desperate to sell newspapers and make a quid at the expense of ruining people’s lives and damaging the dignity of ‘the world’s finest monarchical institution’. But he stressed that The Family had a good friend in him, and his inventive programs had been a key element in their success in managing to hold on to much of their personal popularity through these difficult times. But he did admit that one of his previous innovative ventures for The Family—to get a phrenologist to look at their head shapes and make recommendations—had been only a partial success. (Wong was wise enough to interpret this carefully chosen phrase as an admission that it had been a total disaster.) But his latest venture, to get the palaces feng-shuied,
vaastued,
dowsed and exorcised, was sure to be an even bigger success.

‘You will get a
vaastu
man?’ Wong asked.

‘If I can find one who speaks good English. Still looking, I’m afraid.’

Joyce interrupted: ‘There’s a good one we know in Singapore. We’ll give you his number. I’m sure he could jump on a plane and catch up with us.’

The geomancer noticed that Manks had a habit of popping white tablets into his mouth. At first, he had thought they were
sweets, but when Manks failed to offer them around, Wong realised that they must be something medicinal. Spying on the small circular package in which they were contained, he realised that they were tablets of homeopathic remedy of some kind.

The roads were wide and clear for most of the journey and they had travelled from airport to hotel in little more than forty minutes. Five minutes after checking in, the three of them were up on the eleventh floor, inspecting the rooms they had been assigned. As expected, Joyce had squealled at the opulence of her room, and then yelped again on peering into the marble and glass bathroom.

Manks (‘Call me Robbie’) had suggested that as soon as they had their bags sorted, they all move to his room to talk through what needed to be done. But once the two visitors from Singapore had filed into the royal consultant’s chamber, he received a call on his mobile phone, which made him very agitated. It was clearly a disturbing conversation, although all they could hear of it were his cries of disbelief: ‘What? You don’t…you’re serious? I just…but that’s incredible. You’re sure? You’re absolutely sure? I’m…I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say. Are the police there?’

Wong was vaguely aware that he should leave the room during what was clearly a private call, but was too nosy to do so—as was Joyce. They continued to stand and eavesdrop, even as Manks flashed glares at them and moved towards the window. After a minute, the conversation drew him in so deeply that he seemed to no longer register that they were present, and then he suddenly marched out of the room and into the corridor to finish his chat.

For a moment Wong was tempted to follow him, but manfully resisted. Two minutes later, Manks strode back into the room, his face white and voice unsteady.

‘There’s been a terrible accident…er…incident at the hangar where Skyparc is. I think this may change things. We need to stand by for further instructions.’ He breathed in and out quickly, like a small dog.

‘What do you mean? What sort of incident?’ Joyce asked.

‘I’m not at liberty to say at this moment.’ He sat down on the bed in a daze. ‘We need to stand by for further instructions. You folk can take a break. I need to make some calls urgently.’

Joyce headed to the door. ‘I’m going to change into my swimmers,’ she told her boss. ‘If the rooms are this fab, can you imagine what the hotel swimming pool must be like?’

They had barely left the room when Robbie Manks followed them out, his phone back at his ear. ‘Okay. Understand.’ He rang off and turned to face Wong, who was standing in the thickly carpeted corridor. ‘I’ve just been in contact with Sir Nicholas Handey at Skyparc. We are going to continue with the preparation of the venue. There’s too much riding on this for us to change the schedules now.’

‘So we go to the plane tomorrow morning?’ the feng shui master asked.

‘The visit will be as scheduled tomorrow morning.’

‘Ten o’clock.’

‘Correct. But there’s one thing…’

They both looked expectantly at him, but his voice trailed off. For a moment, he said nothing, merely staring at the backs of his hands. Then he turned to squarely face Joyce. ‘I’m afraid you can’t go. Only Mr Wong.’

‘What?’

‘The vetting people have been doing a secondary search on visitors after…uh…an incident, and the level of security has been raised one notch. They’ve dug up something in your
profile, Ms McQuinnie, that means that we have to ask you not to accompany Mr Wong to the venue tomorrow.’

‘Me? What have I done?’

‘Don’t take this too badly. It’s nothing serious. It’s just that…well, in certain situations, extra care has to be taken—and this is one of them.’

‘But can you at least tell me what I’ve done?’

‘You’ve done nothing, I’m sure.’ He gave her a smile. ‘It’s just bureaucracy.’

The lines between Joyce’s eyebrows arranged themselves into an angry little grid and she pouted, suddenly an upset little girl about to have a tantrum.

But then her face relaxed and she turned to leave them.

‘Where are you going?’ Wong asked.

‘Swimming,’ she said. ‘If I’m not allowed to do any work, I might as well enjoy myself. I’ll do some shopping and stuff, after a swim. I can’t wait to see the pool. It’s going to be a scream.’

An hour later, Joyce had finished her swim and started to phone some local friends, hoping to meet them at the mall. There was one young man she was particularly longing to see: Paul Barker, a former classmate of hers at Island International School during the period in her mid-teens when she had lived in Hong Kong. But he was not at home.

The phone was answered by a nervous domestic helper, who was clearly anxious to discontinue the conversation.

‘Can you take a message to give to him?’ Joyce asked.

‘I take your number give his mama,’ came the answer.

Joyce left her contact details and rang off. Only then did it
register how odd the reply had been. Paul was twenty years old. Why on earth would a domestic helper give the message to his mother rather than to himself? Was he ill? Or away? Surely if he had been away, the helper would just have said, ‘He’s out of town.’ There was something curious about it.