Chapter Seventeen
Brigit began her fourth day of captivity in the hands of a cold blooded killer bent on preventing anyone from standing in his way of changing the history of the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong, and by doing so, no doubt the face of the entire Far East. She was terrified, bewildered, impatient. And very angry.
The terror was deep rooted and while she was successful at times in not allowing it to seep out too obviously she could not conceal it totally. She acted, she lied, she cried and she fought to suppress it. But there were many moments when with her guard low, it bubbled to the surface and manifested itself in throbbing headaches and a palpitating heart, shivering and silent racking sobs, her face buried in cloth to mute the acknowledged fear.
It was a feeling she had never really experienced before and it was not until the second day that she recognised it for what it was. What had seemed hostility and repugnance to her at first finally discarded its mask and revealed its real face. For Brigit it was an ugly and unfamiliar countenance. One that shocked her. The realisation she was very afraid was a fear itself.
When she was first threatened and forcibly abducted from the Hongkong Hotel Brigit’s reaction had been absolutely predictable to anyone who knew her well. She was hostile. On the sidewalk in Canton Road with a gun pointed at her, and the threat over her head that she could directly contribute to the death of her lover if she did not do as told, she had obeyed the explicit instructions delivered by the smiling man by her side. But once inside the vehicle which drew up before them, and into which she was, from an onlooker’s viewpoint carefully helped, Brigit shook off the façade. Bile rose in her and she proceeded to loudly and roundly abuse her kidnapper. He did not try to silence her but made certain the windows were not open and that she approached no nearer than he considered prudent. As the brown sedan carved its way through the traffic frequently stopping for traffic lights, when not to arouse the curiosity of passengers in vehicles nearby the armed man nodded and smiled condescendingly, Brigit continued her tirade in a mixture of French and English that would in any circumstances bruise the eardrums and sensibilities of a normal cultured person.
The driver of the car who Brigit neither saw nor took any notice of, manoeuvred in and out of lanes when not watching the gesticulating antics of his unwilling passenger in the rear view mirror. He grinned at the single Cantonese phrase spat at the killer in which his sexual relationship with his mother was described, but quickly wiped it from his lips with the back of his hand when he caught the look in the black eyes that focused on him from the back seat.
For her part Brigit was not aware of nor did she really care about the effect her constant outburst was having. Her actions were animal. Instinctively reactionary her purpose was to vent her feelings as audibly as she was able. She continued for the hour-long journey through Tsimshatsui, Hung Hom, past the international airport where an incoming Lufthansa jet buzzed them from what seemed a few feet, and away from the congestion of the Kowloon peninsula to the rural New Territories.
The driver pressed the accelerator harder and the aging sedan raced along the wide highway, paying scant attention to the few other cars and lorries, as it passed through the village of Tseng Lan Shue to the T junction which either went right to Clear water Bay or left to Sai Kung and the restricted High Island reservoir and Mount Hallows, west of Long Harbour and east of the Tolo Channel.
The driver turned left, wound his way by Ho Chung, Hebe Haven and Tai Wan to Tai Mong Tsai and Pak Tam Chung. There he stopped again at another junction. One kilometre straight ahead he knew he would come to the barrier at the start of the huge man-made reservoir. Immediately to his right was a slip road which according to the red and white sign led only to the Outward Bound School where civil servants and young executives from the commercial sector, and students, spent weeks learning such skills as team building and self discovery.
The Catskinner in the back seat of the car curtly instructed “jun jor” and the driver wrenched the gear lever upward and heaved the steering wheel anticlockwise. With Brigit by now dry and exhausted and thankfully quiet they drove two kilometres north to a point in the road where it crossed a concrete weir to the side of which about two hundred meters into the hills nestled an old village of twelve houses and a church. The car stopped and the man said softly to Brigit: “Remember, do not do anything other what I tell you. Anything foolish and you know what will happen to your friend Jason Teller. He will die. After you do of course.”
She was led to the church, an incongruous pink and white structure at the back of a small tight compound. Behind it at the foot of the hills was a grey concrete extension and it was into that she was firmly ushered. The driver remained seated in the car and Brigit did not see or hear any other people, though a pack of dogs barked and yapped her arrival.
The extension comprised three rooms, empty shells housing nothing but debris and dust. The apertures that would have been windows were securely boarded and barred allowing no light to enter. It took a while to adjust to the gloom and by the time she had, Brigit had been directed to the furthest room. She was made to sit on the filthy floor while the Catskinner tied her legs and hands with thick rope she had noticed in one of the corners.
She did not protest but glared in hatred as the bonds were knotted and she breathed a guttural: “You bastard. You’ll be sorry.”
The man said nothing. Finally he drew a dark blue large handkerchief from a pocket of his jacket and fastened it tightly around her head, pulling her mouth into a grimace and preventing her from uttering anything more that a grunt. When he had done this he pushed her onto her side, bent her legs up behind her and looped a rope between the hand and leg bonds, completely immobilising her. “Don’t bother to try to free yourself,” he told her. “I can promise you it will only make it more painful. The knots tighten with movement.”
He had then gone outside and did not return for at least an hour. During that time, as she lay breathing in the dust from the floor. Brigit heard the car drive off as the dogs continued their din. But there were no other sounds. Eventually the dogs stopped their barking and she could hear in the silence her own heartbeat and the heavy intake of choking air.
For the rest of the day the Chinese came and went for varying periods of time, never giving an explanation, always warning her not to try to escape, and refusing to make her more comfortable. She was left to push herself into a sideways sitting position, her back against the cool wall, her legs doubled up at the sides. She had to repeatedly shift her weight from one side to the other to prevent numbness or the possibility of cramp. Her jaw ached, her arms felt sore and heavy and at times she thought the blood flow to her legs was cut off. Late in the evening the Catskinner returned and removed the handkerchief and the rope joining the bonds around her hands and legs. She was able to stretch out on the floor and relax her face muscles.
Brigit tried to entice her captor into discussion but he steadfastly refused, either content to stare at the floor in front of him or to pace around the dark rooms, softly, careful not to shatter the night by inadvertently kicking an empty can or piece of timber. At around midnight, after hours of on and off pleading and brooding Brigit lay on the floor and helplessly drifted into a light, many times interrupted, sleep. Every time she awoke the man was in the room with her and even if sitting perfectly still in the corner she could see the shine in his open eyes. When she awoke in the morning he was still there, squatting, silent, without expression. A question about her future was greeted by his refixing the handkerchief and the restricting rope behind her. There was the familiar admonition and he walked out of the room. He was gone for well over an hour and when he came back he was smiling.
“Your friend is concerned about you,” he said. “Very concerned. That pleases me very much. If he is worried he will be concentrating on that worry and not on other things.”
Brigit was also worried. Quite simply she had to go to the toilet. It amazed her she had not thought of it before, but after nearly twenty-four hours of uncomfortable captivity the urge to urinate was inescapable. The more she acknowledged it the more pressing the need became. Violently shaking her head and writhing her body she succeeded in alerting him to her desperate situation.
He untied her hands and legs and took her into one of the other rooms where he pointed to a corner and said simply: “There.” He would stand on the other side of the entrance and he would allow her just a few minutes.
Humiliated and disgusted, her eyes never left the opening and for the first time she was glad the filthy extension to the church had no light. The bleakness did not conceal her but it was a veil behind which she crouched. When she was taken back to her room she begged the ropes not be refastened, promising to stay unmoving against the wall opposite where he sat, legs crossed staring at her.
He agreed and for the time seemed prepared to talk. He had kidnapped her, he said, because it had been necessary.
“And just why was it necessary?” Brigit wanted to know. “What on earth have I done? What do you hope to get in return for me? If it’s money, ransom, you can forget it. I don’t have it. And my friends could hardly come up with anything worthwhile.”
“Please Miss Rolanne,” he replied evenly. “Do not patronise me. You are in no position to question with infantile remarks.”
Chided she was, repentant she was not. “Then suppose you tell me exactly why I am here. And that you intend doing with me, yes? I would like to know.”
Without taking his eyes off her he said: “You are an intelligent woman Miss Rolanne and I am sure you have put two and two together quite easily. However, if you choose to play this silly game I will join you. For a while. It will help pass the time if nothing else. Quite simply you have your friend Jason Teller to thank for your present, shall we call it, detention. The inconvenience you experience is due entirely to him.”
“And what has he done then?” she spat out.
“It is more what he has not done,” said the Catskinner. “He is a foolish man, playing a dangerous game. His actions have placed both your lives at serious risk.”
“So you plan to kill us too? Like you did the others?”
“I did not wish to. But I am left with little choice. If Mr Teller continues to defy me, that little choice remaining will also be forfeited.”
“You can’t get away with it. You will be caught. If Jason can track you down, those trained to do that sort of thing certainly will.”
“Perhaps. But not just yet.”
“How do you know Jason hasn’t told them what he knows about you already? They could be on their way here now.”
The man shook his head slowly. “He has not. You know that as well as I do.”
“Who do you think you are that you know everything?”
“Who I am does not matter. And I do not know everything. But what I do know is that you can do nothing and that Jason Teller must do what I say or else he knows what will happen to you.”
“For an educated person you are really stupid,” said Brigit.
“Take care Miss Rolanne. I might remind you that you are in my charge and there are others out there who would wish that I really was stupid.” The man allowed himself a slight smile and a brief nod of his head. “Indeed, even the journalist considers me anything by stupid. He has said as much in the articles published in his newspaper/”
“Is that why you want him?” asked Brigit. “Because he wrote about you in the paper? Because he described you as a maniac, which you are, not as an intelligent person, but that you have some grand political plan to bring this place down?”
The Catskinner hesitated. Then: “His description of me is inconsequential. He is wrong of course, but it does not matter. To him and his kind I may be thought of as a maniac. As a crazy person. If so, there are many crazy people who are proud to be so. Time will vindicate them. History will be the judge. I know what I do is right. As to what it is, I fear you would not understand.”
“Try me,” tempted Brigit. “Or do you consider a poor French girl is not bright enough to recognise right from wrong?”
Some seconds lapsed before the man spoke again. When he did it was in a low voice and his words were carefully chosen, if they did somewhat resemble a rehearsed script. “Perhaps as a French national you would be better placed than many others here,” he began “The history of your people has been tarnished sufficiently for you to have learned over generations. Algiers and Vietnam are worlds apart but the mistakes are the same, the causes of the errors identical. You can separate the countries but you can’t separate the reasons. There is dubious comfort for you in knowing that you are not alone in your deadly mistakes. Others have made just as many, some many more, and many much worse.”
He stopped. His mouth was a slit and doubt shone in his eyes. Not doubt in what he was saying, what he believed thought Brigit, but doubt as to the effect he was having on her. He was right. She had no idea what he was driving at.
“I don’t follow you,” she said. “You talk about those other places as though what happened there is responsible for what you are doing here. You sound as though I am at fault. It makes no sense.”
“Not you personally,” he said, “but people like you.”
“And just what sort of person am I?” she asked. “What sort of category would a mentally retarded murderer slot me into?”
He stared at her and then suddenly stood up and walked towards her. “The game is over,” he said, roughly pushing her on to her side on the dirty floor. Despite her protestations he began retying the ropes behind her. As her voice rose he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and tied it tightly across her mouth, and then finished the knots at her back. When he was done he straightened. “Do not move. I’ll be right outside.” He left the room.
He was gone for about half an hour but when he returned he poked his head through the door, noted she was still against the wall, and withdrew. He stayed out of sight until she guessed early afternoon. As he re-entered the room she saw he was carrying a brown paper bag and two newspapers, one English the other Chinese. He squatted opposite her and removed three chocolate bars, three cartons of iced lemon tea and some dried beef in a packet. Placing them on the newspapers to his right he looked across the room. “You must eat,” he said, “I will remove the gag and the ropes. If you try anything foolish I will tie them again and you will go hungry and thirsty. It is up to you.”
The first bar of chocolate she consumed in quick, eager, large mouthfuls, washed down with the refreshing iced tea. It would do her figure little good, she mused, but it was essential she try to maintain her strength and her captor clearly had chosen the rich chocolates with this in mind too. She took her time with the second bar, sucking the brown mass from between her teeth and swishing it around her cheeks to savour the taste as much as she could.
He did not eat, but sat quietly watching her closely. When she had finished the second bar, she nodded at the newspaper on the floor. “Obviously you’re not going to kill me just yet,” she said, “so can I read the newspaper?” In answer he picked up the copy of the South China Morning Post and the Oriental Daily News and threw them across the room.
“I doubt I can read this,” she said, holding up the Chinese daily.
“Look at the pretty pictures,” he said, and moved to the corner where he rested his back between the adjoining walls, his legs crossed in front of him.
She began turning the sheets of paper rapidly. Suddenly she stopped and stared at a photograph on a page, four from the back. Then she dropped the newspaper and picked up the news section of the South China Morning Post, casting anxious glances at the man who seemed to be ignoring her from twenty feet away. Turning the pages she found what she was looking form, but hoping not to find. On page five there was a short story which she carefully read, her fear growing with every sentence.
Police divers have recovered the body of a man, trapped inside a car, from Three Fathoms Cove in Sai Kung.
Although details of the gruesome discovery were announced only yesterday, it is believed the dead man was found on Tuesday. The death has not been classified and a police spokesman would give no reason fro the two days of secrecy surrounding the case.
The dead man was Chinese, aged in his mid to late twenties. His identify has not been released.
The police spokesman said the discovery was made by a villager who had gone to fish in the cove, off the Tolo Channel. The villager had seen the rear of the car protruding from the waters and had called the police. When an Emergency Unit team arrived they called in divers to inspect the vehicle. The dead man was slumped behind the steering wheel. The spokesman admitted there were possibly suspicious circumstances but said at this stage no definite classification had been made.
The vehicle, a brown Datsun Bluebird, registration number BM8426, had been reported stolen in Mongkok on Monday. The police are investigating whether the car plunged into the cove accidentally when it ran out of control, or whether it could have been deliberately driven into the water.
Beside the article was a three column black and white picture of the car, held in a police compound.
Brigit’s eyes widened as she looked at the sedan, the patches of lighter work on the rear door where rust cutting had been carried out. Her breathing quickened and she could feel her face flush red.
“You,” she said finally, looking at the Catskinner. “You did it. That was the car that brought me here. You murdered the driver. You brought me here and then drove off and killed him, pushing the car into the water to sink it. But it didn’t. You’re mad. You’re a cold blooded murderer. Demented. A maniac.” She would have continued her outburst but he had crossed the room and was tying the handkerchief around her head again. As she mumbled incoherently he retied the ropes and left her lying on the floor breathing loudly through her nostrils and staring in disbelieve at the person who could kill for no comprehensible reason. And in whose control she was herself defenceless.
*
For the rest of the day and night Brigit remained bound and, with the exception of a few brief periods, gagged. There was no further discussion and the Catskinner stayed in the room with her at all times. She did not sleep until shortly before dawn and then it was fitful, painful. When she opened her eyes for the last time the man was gone. She was exhausted, sore all over her body and again hungry and thirsty. Though she did not know it, it was nine thirty when he reappeared at the entrance to the room. He stood framed in the doorway and Brigit could see clearly the wildness in his eyes. Something had gone wrong. Before she could try to guess what it was, he crossed the room and began untying her. Then as she rubbed her wrists and calf muscles, massaging the blood flow, he roughly wrenched the handkerchief from her mouth.
“Where is he?” he demanded, standing over her threateningly.
“Where’s who?” she retaliated equally harshly.
“Teller,” he shouted. “Where has be gone?”
Brigit ceased her rubbing. “I don’t know what you mean. Isn’t he at the hotel?”
“No.”
“Well, he must have moved to somewhere else. How would I know? What does it….”
The Catskinner stormed to his corner of the room. “He can’t” he ranted. “He must stay there. I insisted. It was a direct instruction. I warned him what would happen if he didn’t do exactly as I said.”
”Don’t be stupid,” sneered Brigit. “Do you think he’s going to sit around doing nothing just because you said he had to? You don’t know Jason if you think he’s going to merely sit and wait for you to tell him what to do next. He’ll find you and when he does…”
Again her sentence was unfinished before he roared at her. “He knew if he disobeyed you would suffer the consequences, He knew, yet he has gone.”
“So,” she said defiantly. “Are you going to kill me? Is that your next move? Brilliant, yes?”
He stood clenching and unclenching his fists, taking deep breaths, staring at Brigit.
“Come on,” she added. “He’s probably gone for a walk. You didn’t really expect him to stay sitting next to the telephone twenty-four hours a day. I suppose that is what you have been doing during your absences. Calling the hotel to check on him.”
Still he said nothing, even though her supposition was wrong.
“Look,” she said. “So maybe Jason has gone against your instructions. What are you going to do? Kill me? That’s not very smart and you know it.” Brigit was talking for her life. She knew the Catskinner was a cold blooded killed. She knew of three victims, the last for no reason other than he had driven the car that brought her to the village. She could easily be the fourth, for a reason no more logical. She had to use reason. She had no other choice, no weapon. “As long as you have me you have him,” she said. “Remove me and you give away your, what do they call it, your trump card. I am your hostage, Jason realises that. Once you don’t have me, you don’t have anything to bargain with. You can’t bring pressure without a lever. You understand that. You must. Don’t you?”
He heaved a heavy sigh. “He should not have left. I told him to stay in the room. If he has moved out of the hotel…”
“If he did that I would not be able to make contact with him,” Brigit finished. “No. He would not isolate us.”
The Catskinner had calmed down. The fires continued to burn in his black eyes, but a steadiness had returned. Suddenly he smiled. “He can do nothing to stop me. He knows nothing about me. I know all about him, but of me he is completely ignorant. And I have you. You are correct. I cannot be stopped.”
Brigit seized the opportunity. “What is your plan? Tell me about it.”
He held the smile and began walking slowly around the room. “Miss Rolanne, you are so predictable,” he said. “That is the trouble with all foreigners. You can be so easily read. You have no control over your emotions, even your thoughts show themselves.” With his head bent he paced the small room in measured steps as he spoke. “You build your ships and your aeroplanes and navigate them through incredible perils to land a great distance away. And when you arrive you set about constructing great cities. There is no doubt you do it well. Hong Kong is testimony to your abilities. But it is also a classic example of how you succeed so well in failing.”
“And what’s wrong with Hong Kong?” Brigit asked, desperate to keep him talking. “It’s come a long way from the barren rock, disregarded by you Chinese for thousands of years. In little more than a hundred years we, or the British, transformed it into a world economic power. You have to admit that.”
“Of course. We are the envy of many. Despite our comparative shortcomings we have achieved much to be proud of. Though I would disagree it was the British who were responsible. We have done it. We Chinese. We workers.”
“With a little help, yes,” Brigit put in.
“With help yes. The initial money. The initial opportunity. However the foreigner went too far and is asking too much. It is we who have earned the riches that have been torn from the earth with our bare hands.”
“By the look of your hands I would say you never spent a day getting them dirty at manual labour,” she interrupted. “What rights do you have?”
The Catskinner stopped his pacing and sat in the middle of the room. “Then allow me to explain Miss Rolanne. Perhaps you can learn something about we Chinese. There is a book called ‘When the Dragon Wakes’. It is not a new book. It was written by a British historian and covers the period of British corruption in China to the turn of the century. Imagine. An Englishman telling the truth, the sordid truth about his own country’s sordid activities. They came and saw our silk. They wanted it. But we had no use for their trade so they brought us opium instead. Against our will they infected our people. So they could get our silk. Then they built their own city on our land, in Shanghai as you surely know, setting themselves up as masters, our overlords from over the sea. Even that was not enough though because they wanted more. Much more. So we come to Hong Kong. They came to Hong Kong and at the point of a gun forced us to sign the uneven treaties for which our own traitors still suffer in hell.”
He paused for breath. “You are right. They built a great city. But they did it with the blood and the toil of we Chinese. And as in China two hundred years ago they erected their castles on the hilltop from which to deliver their laws. A master race in position, if not openly claimed in name. More corruption. The corruption of opium has been replaced by the corruption of pompous power, of unequal authority, of overbearing arrogance. The sadness is this story takes too little time to tell. Like the time it took to carry it out. So quickly the crime was committed.”
He stopped but his gaze remained fixed on Brigit. She held it and when it seemed he was not about to continue she did: “Well, you’re going to get it all back soon aren’t you? In ten years you’ll get back a thousand times more than you say you lost. That should make you happy, yes?”
“Ten years is a long time.”
“If you’ve waited nearly a century and a half, a decade is hardly anything.”
“When you are starving a mouthful of rice is a feast. But when it is your last mouthful it seems so little.”
“There you are then. Hong Kong and its billions will all be yours, it will all belong to China, in just a few years.”
“You misunderstand me,” he said. “To the contrary. Having fought for so long and so hard, another ten years is an eternity.”
“Well, you’ll just have to get used to it,” said Brigit. “You have no say in the matter. The Joint Declaration has been agreed. Hong Kong is in transition until 1997. You’ll have your turn then.”
The man smiled. An awkward, lopsided smile that caused one side of his face to rise and the other to droop.
“What are you suggesting,” said Brigit. “That maybe it won’t take ten years? That Beijing might be impatient enough to take over sooner? That’s impossible. Their word on international treaties has never been broken or questioned. Even I know that.”
“In normal circumstances,” he said, “that is absolutely true.”
“It would have to be something dramatic, something exceptionally threatening, for them to even consider breaking the terms of the Joint Declaration,” she said. “Let alone fly in the face of international opinion and disregard their sworn promises.”
Looking away the Catskinner appeared disinterested for a moment. “Something dramatic. Something exceptional. Yes, it would take that.”
Brigit could feel a cold panic seize her. “And that is something no-one can directly control,” she said softly. “It is an act of god only that can do that.”
He faced her. “Sometimes such events are man made. Sometimes a single man can change the course of history, can move fate.”
“Not me,” said Brigit. She held her breath.
“No. Not you,” he whispered.
“You?”
“I can. I will.”
For three nights Brigit had been the captive of a man who had murdered three people. Half way through the fourth day, the fear she felt suddenly seemed so minor. The anger at her own inconvenience and discomfort. Her bewilderment over her situation and how it might end. The fear for her own safety and that of the man she loved, Jason Teller. All seemed to diminish with the jolting realisation of what was forming in her mind as she huddled lonely, but not alone, in the dingy concrete structure in the remote hills of the New Territories.
The man who controlled her destiny was no longer just a maniac who killed for a thrill or for personal gain. He was undoubtedly a man with a goal who was not prepared to permit anything to blur that vision. He was a madman bent on destroying not individuals but dreams, the lives of whole communities. The very concept terrified her.
She was at the edge. She could see the precipice, sense its depth and sheerness. But still she was a step away from actually looking over the side into the vast horrifying expanse of sure oblivion before her. She had to take that step. She had to actually see the emptiness that awaited.
“You have the passion,” she said to the Catskinner. “And you have achieved your aim so far. But can you truly carry out something on such a huge scale without bringing it all down on yourself?”
“I do not matter,” he replied matter-of-factly. “The single cog is merely responsible for ensuring the whole machine operates.”
“Was the doctor? A small cog also?” she probed gently.
“He was a fool,” came the sharp reply. “A myopic child who was content with games, but who could not even visualise the future.”
“Is that why he had to die? Is that why you killed him?”
“He died because he could not see. He was blinded by the fat cats who walk on both sides of the wall.”
“Fat cats,” said Brigit. “The cat’s skin. So it was symbolic then? Yet wasn’t he on your side? I don’t understand.”
He spat onto the floor. “He was on the other side. He was a gwai lo in all but name and face. He sought continued domination. Freedom for the people