declared, waving his arms expansively.
The night was calm and peaceful and the fronds of the coconut palms above our heads flickered and drifted in the gentle breeze. Stars swarmed and swept in a majestic canvas across the clear black sky, with only the faintest hint of man-made light to the north in Manila. The sea lapped gently against the shore; the joints on the older outriggers in the bay creaked in time with it; and from somewhere in the village behind came the bark of a dog and the faint but enthusiastic shouts of locals involved in a pool or card game. It was paradise, there was no question of that, but at that moment it was nowhere near enough. It struck me then that I was sick of nice weather. And healthy food. I wanted the next fish I ate to be in batter and sitting next to a pile of greasy chips.
'I know exactly what I've got here, Tomboy,' I told him, 'but you know my situation and why I've got to do something about it. I'm going to be taking my half of the cash from the contract. When I've finished in London--'
'If you finish - that's what you've got to think about, mate. You might never come back. I told you about Pope. He knows some dodgy people. Don't mess with him. Honestly. No good'll come of it.'
'When I've finished in London, I'll bring back what remains of my share and pump it straightback into the business. But I don't know how much I'm going to need.'
'You ain't listening to me.'
'I am, but I've already thought everything through. And you know me. I'm stubborn.'
'Too fucking stubborn.'
'That's as maybe, but it's the way it is. I'm booked on the Friday flight out of Manila. I'll be back as soon as I can. It may be days, it could be weeks. I'll keep you posted.'
Tomboy sighed loudly, then shook his head again. 'Be very careful. I know you like to think you're a tough guy, and in a lot of ways you are, but there are tougher ones out there, and I'd hate you to run into them.'
I nodded. 'Thanks for the advice. It's appreciated.'
He started to say something else, but stopped himself. Eventually, he just wished me good luck.
I told him I hoped I didn't need it.
But of course I knew that I would.
Part Two
INTO THE VIOLENT CITY
8
The wind hit me with an icy slap as I stepped out of the Terminal Three building at Heathrow, hopelessly underdressed in a light jacket and shirt. It was seven o'clock on a bitter Friday night in early December, and a few yards away, beyond the panels sheltering the entrance from the worst of what nature had to offer, a driving rain fell through the darkness amidst the crawling traffic.
England in winter. What the hell had I been thinking of, coming back here? On the plane over, I'd found it difficult to keep a lid on my excitement at the prospect of returning home after such a long time away, even though my business here was hardly pleasure. Now, however, the enthusiasm was dropping as fast as my body heat as I stood outside in temperatures hovering only just above freezing, looking every inch the ill-prepared foreign tourist. I needed to get into the warmth, and fast. An announcement in the terminal had informedeveryone that the Heathrow Express to London was currently out of service due to an incident at Hounslow, which probably meant some selfish bastard had jumped under a train, so I joined the queue of shivering, bedraggled travellers at the taxi rank, feeling vaguely paranoid that I might run into someone who knew me from the past, but confident that my disguise was working. No one had questioned me at immigration. I'd given the guy my passport, held in the name of Mr Marcus Kane; he'd taken one brief look at it and me, and that had been that. Not even a second glance. I was back.
It took ten minutes before my turn came, and I was fading fast as I got into the back of the black cab and asked the driver to take me to Paddington. He pulled away without saying anything and headed for the M4, jostling for position on the overcrowded Heathrow sliproad.
The traffic
The night was calm and peaceful and the fronds of the coconut palms above our heads flickered and drifted in the gentle breeze. Stars swarmed and swept in a majestic canvas across the clear black sky, with only the faintest hint of man-made light to the north in Manila. The sea lapped gently against the shore; the joints on the older outriggers in the bay creaked in time with it; and from somewhere in the village behind came the bark of a dog and the faint but enthusiastic shouts of locals involved in a pool or card game. It was paradise, there was no question of that, but at that moment it was nowhere near enough. It struck me then that I was sick of nice weather. And healthy food. I wanted the next fish I ate to be in batter and sitting next to a pile of greasy chips.
'I know exactly what I've got here, Tomboy,' I told him, 'but you know my situation and why I've got to do something about it. I'm going to be taking my half of the cash from the contract. When I've finished in London--'
'If you finish - that's what you've got to think about, mate. You might never come back. I told you about Pope. He knows some dodgy people. Don't mess with him. Honestly. No good'll come of it.'
'When I've finished in London, I'll bring back what remains of my share and pump it straightback into the business. But I don't know how much I'm going to need.'
'You ain't listening to me.'
'I am, but I've already thought everything through. And you know me. I'm stubborn.'
'Too fucking stubborn.'
'That's as maybe, but it's the way it is. I'm booked on the Friday flight out of Manila. I'll be back as soon as I can. It may be days, it could be weeks. I'll keep you posted.'
Tomboy sighed loudly, then shook his head again. 'Be very careful. I know you like to think you're a tough guy, and in a lot of ways you are, but there are tougher ones out there, and I'd hate you to run into them.'
I nodded. 'Thanks for the advice. It's appreciated.'
He started to say something else, but stopped himself. Eventually, he just wished me good luck.
I told him I hoped I didn't need it.
But of course I knew that I would.
Part Two
INTO THE VIOLENT CITY
8
The wind hit me with an icy slap as I stepped out of the Terminal Three building at Heathrow, hopelessly underdressed in a light jacket and shirt. It was seven o'clock on a bitter Friday night in early December, and a few yards away, beyond the panels sheltering the entrance from the worst of what nature had to offer, a driving rain fell through the darkness amidst the crawling traffic.
England in winter. What the hell had I been thinking of, coming back here? On the plane over, I'd found it difficult to keep a lid on my excitement at the prospect of returning home after such a long time away, even though my business here was hardly pleasure. Now, however, the enthusiasm was dropping as fast as my body heat as I stood outside in temperatures hovering only just above freezing, looking every inch the ill-prepared foreign tourist. I needed to get into the warmth, and fast. An announcement in the terminal had informedeveryone that the Heathrow Express to London was currently out of service due to an incident at Hounslow, which probably meant some selfish bastard had jumped under a train, so I joined the queue of shivering, bedraggled travellers at the taxi rank, feeling vaguely paranoid that I might run into someone who knew me from the past, but confident that my disguise was working. No one had questioned me at immigration. I'd given the guy my passport, held in the name of Mr Marcus Kane; he'd taken one brief look at it and me, and that had been that. Not even a second glance. I was back.
It took ten minutes before my turn came, and I was fading fast as I got into the back of the black cab and asked the driver to take me to Paddington. He pulled away without saying anything and headed for the M4, jostling for position on the overcrowded Heathrow sliproad.
The traffic
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