Dragon Head - A Beatrix Rose Thriller: Hong Kong Stories Volume 1 (Beatrix Rose's Hong Kong Stories Book 3) by Mark Dawson
Authors: Mark Dawson
Ads: Link
stomach. She went back into the compartment and collected her bag, making sure that the rest of the opium was safely inside, and fled out into the night.
CHAPTER NINE
HONG KONG was the kind of place where you could get whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it. There was no night and no day, but only the light of the sun and the light of the neon. It had been a simple enough thing to find what she needed. The man who had sold her the opium had smiled a knowing smile as she returned and asked for more. He told her that she would enjoy it more if she experienced it properly. He had told her to return that same evening and, when she did, he had taken her to a fetid alley that lurked behind the high wharves of the Kowloon harbour. Beatrix tried to remember the winding lefts and rights and knew that she would struggle to find it again on her own. The entrance was found at the end of the flight of steps that led down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave. She passed down the steps, worn smooth in the centre by the ceaseless tread of feet. There was a single flickering bulb above the door. The man knocked. An eye appeared in the peephole, and then the locks were turned and the door opened to them. The man said nothing, just stepped aside and ushered her inside.
Beatrix did as she was instructed. She climbed the stairs to a long low room, thick and heavy with brown opium smoke.
They called them Hua-yan jian : flower-smoke rooms. It was a romantic vision and did not accord with the reality. It was dark and difficult to make anything out. She saw bodies stretched out in strange poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward. Those who were awake and cognisant turned to look at her with glassy, hostile eyes. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, alternating between bright and faint, as the burning opium waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes that were held to the lips of the smokers. The majority of the men and women here were quiet, lying in idle repose, but some kept up low conversation with themselves or with others. There were mumbled imprecations, sighs of torpor, and snores from those who had lapsed into addled sleep. Beatrix saw the small brazier of burning charcoal at the other end of the room. One of the wizened old men paid by the triads to administer the den was crouched before it, his elbows resting on his bent knees and his jaw resting upon his two fists, staring into the fire.
She paid for a ‘premium’ space. For an extra ten dollars she was guaranteed a place on the floor, as well as the privilege of having her pipe prepared for her by the ex-patriot Indian who ran the den. It was late and, although she did have a spot to lie down, all the best places had been taken. These were against the wall, where you could lean back without falling over. There was also what the Indian called the VIP section, an exclusive end of the floor near the brazier that had a mattress wedged up against the corner by a window. This cost twenty dollars, and was also taken.
She didn’t care. She would make do.
“ Ya-p’iàn ,” the Indian said in a hushed and reverent tone.
Opium.
#
TIME PASSED.
Beatrix returned to the den again and again. She lost track of the days. She wasn’t really sure how long she had been smoking. A week? Two weeks? Everything was smoothed out. Worries disappeared. Concerns were forgotten. Time became an abstract concept. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift, buffeted along by the warmth and the dizzying caress of the opium. It obliterated her memories. She forgot about Grace. She forgot about Ying. She even forgot about Isabella. She forgot about the hopelessness of it all. Each new breath of the sweet-smelling smoke rubbed away a little more detail until all that was left of her recollections was a mess of scenes, pictures and images that made little sense.
“Hey.”
She dived deeper and deeper, leaving her worries
CHAPTER NINE
HONG KONG was the kind of place where you could get whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it. There was no night and no day, but only the light of the sun and the light of the neon. It had been a simple enough thing to find what she needed. The man who had sold her the opium had smiled a knowing smile as she returned and asked for more. He told her that she would enjoy it more if she experienced it properly. He had told her to return that same evening and, when she did, he had taken her to a fetid alley that lurked behind the high wharves of the Kowloon harbour. Beatrix tried to remember the winding lefts and rights and knew that she would struggle to find it again on her own. The entrance was found at the end of the flight of steps that led down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave. She passed down the steps, worn smooth in the centre by the ceaseless tread of feet. There was a single flickering bulb above the door. The man knocked. An eye appeared in the peephole, and then the locks were turned and the door opened to them. The man said nothing, just stepped aside and ushered her inside.
Beatrix did as she was instructed. She climbed the stairs to a long low room, thick and heavy with brown opium smoke.
They called them Hua-yan jian : flower-smoke rooms. It was a romantic vision and did not accord with the reality. It was dark and difficult to make anything out. She saw bodies stretched out in strange poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward. Those who were awake and cognisant turned to look at her with glassy, hostile eyes. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, alternating between bright and faint, as the burning opium waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes that were held to the lips of the smokers. The majority of the men and women here were quiet, lying in idle repose, but some kept up low conversation with themselves or with others. There were mumbled imprecations, sighs of torpor, and snores from those who had lapsed into addled sleep. Beatrix saw the small brazier of burning charcoal at the other end of the room. One of the wizened old men paid by the triads to administer the den was crouched before it, his elbows resting on his bent knees and his jaw resting upon his two fists, staring into the fire.
She paid for a ‘premium’ space. For an extra ten dollars she was guaranteed a place on the floor, as well as the privilege of having her pipe prepared for her by the ex-patriot Indian who ran the den. It was late and, although she did have a spot to lie down, all the best places had been taken. These were against the wall, where you could lean back without falling over. There was also what the Indian called the VIP section, an exclusive end of the floor near the brazier that had a mattress wedged up against the corner by a window. This cost twenty dollars, and was also taken.
She didn’t care. She would make do.
“ Ya-p’iàn ,” the Indian said in a hushed and reverent tone.
Opium.
#
TIME PASSED.
Beatrix returned to the den again and again. She lost track of the days. She wasn’t really sure how long she had been smoking. A week? Two weeks? Everything was smoothed out. Worries disappeared. Concerns were forgotten. Time became an abstract concept. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift, buffeted along by the warmth and the dizzying caress of the opium. It obliterated her memories. She forgot about Grace. She forgot about Ying. She even forgot about Isabella. She forgot about the hopelessness of it all. Each new breath of the sweet-smelling smoke rubbed away a little more detail until all that was left of her recollections was a mess of scenes, pictures and images that made little sense.
“Hey.”
She dived deeper and deeper, leaving her worries
Similar Books
