Hong Kong Belongers by Simon Barnes

Author:Simon Barnes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2016-10-04T00:00:00+00:00

You acquire a method for dealing with these things. When you begin that long, slow, graceful parabola backwards into the vastness of space, there is yet no need to despair. To strip and find his bed had been the work of a moment: but at once he was joined by a familiar unloved companion. Bedspin. When the bed soars and arches beneath you, you know you have progressed into the deeper regions of drunkenness.

But Alan was still just about bearably drunk. Capably drunk. He opened his eyes, and focused meticulously on the light-switch. This was the core of his method. The point was to hold it there. It showed a tendency to slide away, up and to the left – always to the left, why was that? – but Alan subdued it with his will. Man of steel. Alan knew that if the light-switch broke away, he was lost. It swayed, made skittish little darts for freedom, retreated unwillingly back into the centre of Alan’s vision. Stayed. See what I mean? Sleep struck him like a sandbag.

It would take a nuclear explosion to wake him. Alas, a nuclear explosion was what took place. An enormous crash was followed by the most tremendous roaring. For a moment, Alan panicked, sweat breaking out in dramatic cataracts, but soon he knew exactly where he was. Was someone knocking down his flat? After a moment, things became clearer: someone was knocking down the flat above.

‘You fucking little bitch, do that again and I’ll –’

The rest was lost in a passionate reply, the words indistinguishable, though no doubt bladdy-fackin barcer came into it. How strange it was that André, so charming, so unflappable, was able to give himself without restraint to these tiresome disputes. Another crash: something had been thrown, perhaps a table upset.

‘Right, you little bitch …’

More inscrutable bladdy-fackin stuff.

‘I’ll teach you to believe me. I’ll teach you.’

More screaming. The sound of feet treading hard. This was surely a physical struggle. Alan counselled himself: get ready. The orgy of reconciliation is at hand. Screams of ecstasy any minute.

Alan had retreated to a half-doze when the sound of a slamming door roused him again. Then a passionate hammering on its surface. Her voice rose, clearer now that she was in the stairwell: ‘You can’t leave me like this, you barcer! You can’t!’

André’s voice, calm, muffled, words indistinct. They raised Karen to new peaks of frenzy: ‘Where can I go? Where can I go?’

André’s voice was again unclear. Alan savoured a pause by falling into a doze. Then loud histrionic sobbing drew him close to the surface. This was followed by a shotgun blast of sound from André’s stereo, absolute rock-bottom dirt cheap. There was a little more hammering on the door, but the pristine ferocity of the first assault had abated.

None of this was exceptional. It might even be considered an aspect of Tung Lung routine. Drunk or sober, he would let it wash over him. Lulled by the thunder of the bassline overhead, he gave himself up to beery slumbers.

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