Chapter 22

The realisation of where he was slowly flushed through his brain, again brought by chemicals and electricity. The palpitations were in his chest already, but he was never sure what brought them, on time, every morning, like an alarm clock. He remembered why he was sore. Last night it had only been his knees; this morning it was every joint and every muscle in his anatomy, some of them so obscure that even he would be hard pressed to remember their names.

Kreeger’s five-star room in the capital had been quiet, but even there sleep had been slow coming and ephemeral. His first night in this unnamed hotel in Pei Lin had been more like a night spent in a cage at a demented circus that attracted mysterious and unseen visitors. His bars had been rattled all night long by the cries of street brawls, the screeches of scooter engines, and the horns of scared drivers who must have found themselves in the wrong part of the city. Some of the visitors had even tried to get into his stall, bug-eyed whores whom he had given up chasing away some time after three o’clock.

He lay there in pain, surprised to find that he had slept at all, especially without his bottle of Dragon Fire or a pill or two. He hoped for a return of his subconscious. It did not come. The palpitations were too great now and his mind was a coleslaw of emotions: Maria, Blye, Lee . . .

He swung his legs out of the bed and sat up, touching and massaging the sorest parts. He found welts where mosquitoes had feasted during the night and remembered being bitten awake several times. The overhead fan was not enough—he’d have to get a net. He looked across at the dresser, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes, and saw the reflected image of a tired old man. It shocked him and he looked away, around the walls of the drab room. No wonder he looked bad: he was so out of place, so detached, remote. He seemed to be pushing himself further and further into this other world of squalid cities and seedy hotels, away from the very place that he most needed to be. He could not be further out of his depth if he tried.

The phone rang, snapping him back to the present. He stared at it, sure that it hadn’t been working the night before. He made a clumsy grab for the receiver and tried to greet the caller, but his throat knotted and strangled his words. His cough sounded like scree slipping down an escarpment and he forgot to take the receiver away from danger. The sudden head movement unleashed a throb that had probably been lurking somewhere in his brain ventricle for a long time.

‘Oh, Docta,’ came Lee’s smarmy voice, ‘You not used to our air; it will bite your throat for a few days, but don’t worry you will get used to it, you know?’ He cackled.

Kreeger cleared his throat again, this time taking the receiver away from his mouth and regretting that he had not waited before answering the phone. He swallowed two or three times. Get used to it, he thought, no chance of being here long enough for that, I’m afraid. He drew back the receiver.

‘Yes,’ he said, abruptly, ‘. . . Jon.’

‘Good Morning, Docta. Hope I’m not too early.’

Kreeger had no idea what the time was. ‘No, it’s fine. I’m up.’

‘Good, good; I just wanted to see if you need anything.’

‘I’m fine.’ He cleared his throat again and the throbbing resurfaced. ‘If you could tell me how to put a call through to the capital, I would be grateful.’

‘Start with 225, wait for the click, then a 9, then your number.’

‘Thanks. How about calling the States?

‘Not so easy Docta. You can try from the police station if you want.’

‘Maybe later, thanks. Jon, we are going up the mountain this morning, right?’

Lee’s end of the line went silent for a moment. Something electrical hissed a few bars of a local folk song through the wires—backwards; and then Lee came back on: ‘Docta . . . eh . . . I’m not sure if I can get a car for us today. And no other way to get there I’m afraid. Sorry. I thought we could go back to the morgue today.’

Kreeger raised his voice; words emerged without impediment: ‘Listen Jon, we are going to the crime scene this morning. We will go by taxi if you cannot get a car. This is an important part of my work.’

‘Ok, Docta,’ Lee said, blowing air into the telephone, ‘I will try to borrow a car.’

‘Thank you,’ Kreeger said sharply. ‘And I also want to see this monastery where the boy lived and meet his teacher.’

‘Oh I’m not sure if Masta Long is there at the moment,’ Lee said; and then before Kreeger could say anything, he changed the topic. ‘Docta Kreega, you had better eat breakfast in the hotel.’

It worked: at the mention of food Kreeger came back to the hotel, back to more immediate problems. ‘I’m not sure if I could manage breakfast this morning,’ he said, ‘I have a bit of a headache. What causes that, the air or the water?’

‘No, docta, that’s the MSG—too much in the noodles last night. I forget to tell the cook not to add so much. So sorry. Drink some tea and it’ll clear. Ha, I sound like the docta now, eh Docta?’

Kreeger tried to humour Lee with a mumbled response then quickly hung up.

So now he knew: the air sandpapered his throat, the water rotted his insides, and the food gave him a hangover. He suddenly felt a stomach cramp and rushed towards the bathroom, wondering what had loosened his bowels. If he had not already decided to get out of this city as soon as he possibly could, he did so now, as he entered the bathroom, looked at the hole in the floor, and realised that he would have to bend his aching knees and crouch down on his sore legs for this emergency.