people of importance. In thegangs they found a degree of care, consideration and closeness that they certainly found nowhere else. In school and church, success in exams was equated with righteousness: “Be a good boy—don’t go around with bad people, but study hard and pass your exams.” The school had said it. The Church had said it. Their parents had said it. For the boys like Chan Wo Sai, it was terribly boring to be told the same thing again and again, and they hated hearing it. The gangs and my club were the only places where they did not hear the sentence of failure and rejection.
The Youth Club was indeed unlike any other activity organized in the Walled City. Nobody made any money out of it; no gangsters controlled it, and years later they even sent guards to protect it from those who wanted to smash the place up. The club went through various addresses, but inside it was always the same—a bare room with some game equipment (like table tennis and darts), crude benches and a bookshelf with Christian books bought by me, which no one could read.
Nicholas was another boy I got to know very well during this time. Both his father and mother had been on charges for selling drugs, and the whole family lived in one of the nastiest houses I have ever been in. Half of it was literally a pigsty—for their neighbors kept a pig below. The two eldest girls were prostitutes, and there always seemed to be a lot of babies around. I never found out which baby belonged to which mother. Some were Nicholas’s brothers and sisters—others his nephews and nieces. They all lived in a room the size of a broom cupboard that stank.
The church members resented Nicholas because, like Chan Wo Sai, he was such a bad influence in the school. Of course, they knew about the bargirl sisters and that the father was a hopeless opium addict. In their eyes, the fact that I was welcoming Nicholas to our club gave the Christian Church a bad name—I should not even be seen with him.
I knew what Nicholas was like. He was vile and always a pain; he had Triad connections right from the beginning and later graduated to becoming a heroin addict and, necessarily, apusher. But I loved him, even if unreasonably, for Jesus had come into the world for him, which too was unreasonable.
So I made a point of befriending him. I visited him at home all hours of the day for weeks and months and years. I was terribly concerned about him and grieved for him—perhaps more deeply than for any other person over the years. I found him in drug dens; I went to him when he was arrested; I prayed with him in the police station and in the prison before his trial; I helped him with his trial. But none of my efforts changed him.
I learned that any sense of “righteousness” was lacking in that place of darkness. Crime, dishonesty and corruption were considered “right” as long as they paid. But this attitude did not stop its supporters from adopting a cliché-loaded morality in my presence. They felt it was correct, as I represented the Church, the Establishment.
“Isn’t he a bad boy,” Nicholas’s mother would say to me in front of him. “Miss Pullinger—you must teach him a good way and take him to your church and the Youth Club.” It was nauseous prating, and I hated it. Then she would moan, “Can’t understand why my children are bad. I had them baptized and sent them to church.” This from a woman who measured grains of white powder into little packets for sale to junkies.
Later on, one of the younger sisters, Annie, also became a bargirl. Then, incredibly, she scored the ultimate by making a wonderful marriage. Her husband was a
for-gei
and a collector of rake-off money for the police. Annie was ever so pleased about marrying him, because he had his own private car. Annie’s mother was delighted, too; although the nightclubs, ballrooms and brothels owned and run by the son-in-law’s family were only low class, at least they were successful.
One
The Youth Club was indeed unlike any other activity organized in the Walled City. Nobody made any money out of it; no gangsters controlled it, and years later they even sent guards to protect it from those who wanted to smash the place up. The club went through various addresses, but inside it was always the same—a bare room with some game equipment (like table tennis and darts), crude benches and a bookshelf with Christian books bought by me, which no one could read.
Nicholas was another boy I got to know very well during this time. Both his father and mother had been on charges for selling drugs, and the whole family lived in one of the nastiest houses I have ever been in. Half of it was literally a pigsty—for their neighbors kept a pig below. The two eldest girls were prostitutes, and there always seemed to be a lot of babies around. I never found out which baby belonged to which mother. Some were Nicholas’s brothers and sisters—others his nephews and nieces. They all lived in a room the size of a broom cupboard that stank.
The church members resented Nicholas because, like Chan Wo Sai, he was such a bad influence in the school. Of course, they knew about the bargirl sisters and that the father was a hopeless opium addict. In their eyes, the fact that I was welcoming Nicholas to our club gave the Christian Church a bad name—I should not even be seen with him.
I knew what Nicholas was like. He was vile and always a pain; he had Triad connections right from the beginning and later graduated to becoming a heroin addict and, necessarily, apusher. But I loved him, even if unreasonably, for Jesus had come into the world for him, which too was unreasonable.
So I made a point of befriending him. I visited him at home all hours of the day for weeks and months and years. I was terribly concerned about him and grieved for him—perhaps more deeply than for any other person over the years. I found him in drug dens; I went to him when he was arrested; I prayed with him in the police station and in the prison before his trial; I helped him with his trial. But none of my efforts changed him.
I learned that any sense of “righteousness” was lacking in that place of darkness. Crime, dishonesty and corruption were considered “right” as long as they paid. But this attitude did not stop its supporters from adopting a cliché-loaded morality in my presence. They felt it was correct, as I represented the Church, the Establishment.
“Isn’t he a bad boy,” Nicholas’s mother would say to me in front of him. “Miss Pullinger—you must teach him a good way and take him to your church and the Youth Club.” It was nauseous prating, and I hated it. Then she would moan, “Can’t understand why my children are bad. I had them baptized and sent them to church.” This from a woman who measured grains of white powder into little packets for sale to junkies.
Later on, one of the younger sisters, Annie, also became a bargirl. Then, incredibly, she scored the ultimate by making a wonderful marriage. Her husband was a
for-gei
and a collector of rake-off money for the police. Annie was ever so pleased about marrying him, because he had his own private car. Annie’s mother was delighted, too; although the nightclubs, ballrooms and brothels owned and run by the son-in-law’s family were only low class, at least they were successful.
One
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