duration of your stay, sir. There are a number of bells like this one, sir,” he announced, holding up a small gold bell. “These are located throughout the suite Mister Finn Flynn. Please ring if you require me anytime, day or night.”
OK, enough is enough! Someone is pulling my leg here. I’m a terrorist on the run, not the president of a banana republic. What’s the score? Where’s the hidden camera, eh?
When I eventually got to the bedroom I was struck dumb in disbelief. I’ve been in people’s homes that are smaller than the bed. All the same, that didn’t stop me doing a swan dive into the middle of the bed.
I stayed right there until the butler entered the room and I heard just the hint of a cough, to let me know he’s there. This man has stealth down to a fine art – another man we could make great use of in and around the narrow back streets of Belfast and Derry.
“Would you like me to run you a relaxing bath, or would you prefer a shower, perhaps, sir?”
I came to my senses and remembered that I’m a socialist Republican, and butlers dancing attention don’t fit with that.
“It’s OK. I’ll look after meself in that department. You go on and take it easy. I can turn on a couple of water taps,” I said.
“Then I shall retire to my room, sir. Please ring if you do require any assistance, any at all, sir.”
Here I am, being a thoughtless shite again. There’s dignity in a man’s work, even if it is servile work. And I’ve just stomped all over a proud man’s dignity. I didn’t ring the bell, and I know I never will, but I went looking for the butler and found him in his pantry.
“Could I ask your name please?”
”It’s Ling, Mister Finn Flynn, sir, William Ling.”
“Right Mister Ling, I’m going to freshen up now. It’s been a long day and I’m not in the best of humours. I’d be obliged if you could organise a large glass of fresh orange juice, please.”
“There will be a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice ready by the time you wish to drink it, sir,” he replied, pointing to a juicer on the counter in his pantry.
“I couldn’t ask for better than that,” I replied, with what I hope isn’t a condescending smile.
7
HONG KONG
The telephone was buzzing while I was in the shower. As soon as I shut the water off Mister Ling tapped on the bathroom door to tell me that my guests are waiting downstairs in the Chinnery lounge. Jaysus, I’m certainly not expecting any guests. I hope these guests don’t wear size twelve shoes, hold identity cards, carry handcuffs and truncheons – or maybe firearms – and have no sense of humour whatsoever.
Feeling a good deal fresher after my shower and orange juice, I headed downstairs and found the Chinnery lounge on the second floor. The discreet lighting, old mahogany wood panels, polished brass and deep leather banquette seating give the bar the look of an ocean liner’s first class salon, or a Whitehall club – not that I’ve been inside either. But I’ve seen enough pictures in magazines and programmes on TV to get the general idea.
There’s no obvious sign of any policemen in the bar, but I see Limp-wristed Eddie in the darkest far corner. He’s sitting alongside an elderly Chinese man and a handsome, suntanned man with curly hair who I take to be Italian, or maybe Israeli. He has that intense look, like he’s on a mission for Mossad or the CIA. As I approached their table Eddie stood up to greet me and beckon a hovering waiter.
“Whiskey and water, please,” I said. The waiter remained motionless, as if he didn’t understand my order.
“The Chinnery only serves single-malt whiskey. You have to tell him which brand you want,” Eddie whispered. The only name I can think of is Glenmorangie, which seems to satisfy the waiting waiter. He stuck his tray under his arm, like a sergeant major’s baton, and stepped sharply to the bar.
The elderly Chinese man introduced himself. “I am Mister Sui Wong-Li, but
OK, enough is enough! Someone is pulling my leg here. I’m a terrorist on the run, not the president of a banana republic. What’s the score? Where’s the hidden camera, eh?
When I eventually got to the bedroom I was struck dumb in disbelief. I’ve been in people’s homes that are smaller than the bed. All the same, that didn’t stop me doing a swan dive into the middle of the bed.
I stayed right there until the butler entered the room and I heard just the hint of a cough, to let me know he’s there. This man has stealth down to a fine art – another man we could make great use of in and around the narrow back streets of Belfast and Derry.
“Would you like me to run you a relaxing bath, or would you prefer a shower, perhaps, sir?”
I came to my senses and remembered that I’m a socialist Republican, and butlers dancing attention don’t fit with that.
“It’s OK. I’ll look after meself in that department. You go on and take it easy. I can turn on a couple of water taps,” I said.
“Then I shall retire to my room, sir. Please ring if you do require any assistance, any at all, sir.”
Here I am, being a thoughtless shite again. There’s dignity in a man’s work, even if it is servile work. And I’ve just stomped all over a proud man’s dignity. I didn’t ring the bell, and I know I never will, but I went looking for the butler and found him in his pantry.
“Could I ask your name please?”
”It’s Ling, Mister Finn Flynn, sir, William Ling.”
“Right Mister Ling, I’m going to freshen up now. It’s been a long day and I’m not in the best of humours. I’d be obliged if you could organise a large glass of fresh orange juice, please.”
“There will be a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice ready by the time you wish to drink it, sir,” he replied, pointing to a juicer on the counter in his pantry.
“I couldn’t ask for better than that,” I replied, with what I hope isn’t a condescending smile.
7
HONG KONG
The telephone was buzzing while I was in the shower. As soon as I shut the water off Mister Ling tapped on the bathroom door to tell me that my guests are waiting downstairs in the Chinnery lounge. Jaysus, I’m certainly not expecting any guests. I hope these guests don’t wear size twelve shoes, hold identity cards, carry handcuffs and truncheons – or maybe firearms – and have no sense of humour whatsoever.
Feeling a good deal fresher after my shower and orange juice, I headed downstairs and found the Chinnery lounge on the second floor. The discreet lighting, old mahogany wood panels, polished brass and deep leather banquette seating give the bar the look of an ocean liner’s first class salon, or a Whitehall club – not that I’ve been inside either. But I’ve seen enough pictures in magazines and programmes on TV to get the general idea.
There’s no obvious sign of any policemen in the bar, but I see Limp-wristed Eddie in the darkest far corner. He’s sitting alongside an elderly Chinese man and a handsome, suntanned man with curly hair who I take to be Italian, or maybe Israeli. He has that intense look, like he’s on a mission for Mossad or the CIA. As I approached their table Eddie stood up to greet me and beckon a hovering waiter.
“Whiskey and water, please,” I said. The waiter remained motionless, as if he didn’t understand my order.
“The Chinnery only serves single-malt whiskey. You have to tell him which brand you want,” Eddie whispered. The only name I can think of is Glenmorangie, which seems to satisfy the waiting waiter. He stuck his tray under his arm, like a sergeant major’s baton, and stepped sharply to the bar.
The elderly Chinese man introduced himself. “I am Mister Sui Wong-Li, but
Similar Books
