Chapter Fifteen
On any other Saturday morning, Mitchell would have been up and about, making breakfast, doing housework or planning his day. Today he languished in bed, blinking at the ceiling fan, mulling over the string of dismal recent events. His days had deteriorated progressively from bad to worse. On rare occasions, a laboured week at work without much happening could feel like a month. Even though the last few weeks had flashed past in minutes, each retrenchment meeting had felt like a personal failure.
At unscheduled times during the days before the official announcement, members of staff from various departments had come to ask him if rumours about layoffs were true, and each time he’d had to lie and reassure them. As for recruiters, he’d finally refused to take their calls, sick of having to deflect questions. When all bank staff finally had the news confirmed in a town hall meeting, many faces had turned his way with contempt.
The following day, with ruthless efficiency, redundancies had begun.
Only last week an excited Kate had hauled him out for a coffee and shown him an email she’d received with the generous offer of a comparative role in a rival bank. Her interview had been successful. Charteris had even agreed to let her go earlier than her notice period. On the surface, he’d tried his best to look happy for her, but deep down he felt only a sense of sadness and loss.
With Pauline back in the office, he’d sat with his head bowed in the meeting where his colleague, Helen, had been told she would be the first casualty. For somebody usually quick to temper, she had taken the news with stoicism. While Pauline stepped out to attend another meeting, he had gone in to see Helen as she’d packed up the few personal items from her office drawers.
“ I’m so sorry, Helen ,” he had said from the doorway.
“ Don’t be .” She’d looked in remarkably good spirits. He’d wondered if she’d already known. “ I’m honestly relieved. I kind of thought I’d be one of the casualties, just not the first .”
“ What will you do ?”
“ Head back home for a while. Take some time out. Rethink my life. Maybe look for a job there. Don’t suppose you fancy working in Sydney, do you? We make a good team .”
Mitchell had chuckled sadly. He would miss working alongside her.
“ We do. And the offer sounds tempting. Let’s stay in touch. To be honest, I’m not sure how I’m going to survive the next six months without you around .”
“ Poor Mitchell. Having to give people bad news day after day. I don’t envy you. And I doubt Cruella will want to get her hands dirty .”
By the time the day of the junk party came around, he’d felt emotionally shredded. If Zane had not been visiting, he would have made an excuse to bail. But putting on that absurd pirate costume and seeing Zane proudly wearing his own had conspired to improve his mood. Then, meeting Tommy in his sailor’s outfit, looking as ridiculously sexy as ever—and remembering their moment from the week before—followed by genial chats with Harold and William, the array of colourful food and glorious sunshine, and the stress of the week had all but melted away.
Until his nephew had almost drowned.
Even before that, when he had gone to the galley to get drinks for Zane and others, he’d overheard Alec and Tommy as they’d sat and chatted, their backs to him, unaware of his presence. Objectively, he’d known Tommy wanted to connect with Alec, but hammering home Mitchell’s dowdiness and unsuitability had bordered on insulting. Moreover, Tommy's agreeing to help fix Alec’s colleague up with him at the wedding had felt like a betrayal. Mitchell’s good mood had already begun to dissolve long before the near drowning incident.
He had made the naive mistake of letting himself to get too close. The kiss, however tentative, had stoked something in him, given him false hope, and he needed to take a step back and reevaluate their connection. He enjoyed their conversations, but how could he ever get past Tommy’s superficial nature, his emotional transience and lack of any kind of depth or substance? Tommy had made plain that he saw nothing more than friendship between them. And even that would probably wither and die once their agreement to help each other was fulfilled and Zane had gone. No, he needed to put distance between them to maintain his sanity and retain a modicum of self-respect.
They had disembarked the junk at around four, with everyone still in high spirits. After helping William with Harold, they’d said their farewells. Zane, who had already forgotten about the incident, had made plans to head into town for drinks with his group, still dressed as seafarers. Undoubtedly photographs of their antics would appear later on social media. Mitchell had declined the offer to join. After waving to Tommy and Alec, who'd had dinner arrangements with Sammi and their relatives, Mitchell had headed towards the taxi queue, relieved to be going home alone. But not before Tommy had caught up with him,
“ Everything okay ?” Tommy had asked. Maybe he had sensed Mitchell’s mood change.
“ Apart from my nephew almost drowning, you mean ?”
“ He should have said something. He could see what they were up to. He is a grown-up .”
“ He’s still a teenager. And he’s in my care. While in Hong Kong, he’s my responsibility .”
“ You can’t blame yourself —”
“ Then who else can I blame ?”
Tommy had fallen silent. The couple in front of Mitchell had climbed into a taxi, making Mitchell the next in line.
“ I’m meeting Devon and Oscar on Wednesday evening ,” Tommy had said. “ Do you want to join us ?”
“ I’ll pass. Going be busy for the next couple of weeks .”
Tommy’s obvious disappointment had made Mitchell’s chest ache, and he’d almost caved. But he had made up his mind, which meant sticking to his resolve.
“ Alec’s waiting for you ,” Mitchell had said, nodding to a point over Tommy’s shoulder. “ You should go .”
“ You are coming to see the show, aren’t you? It’s my birthday on closing night .”
“ We’ll see ,” Mitchell had said, opening the back door to the taxi. “ Zane flies home the following day .”
“ What’s going on, Mitchell ?”
“ I told you, I’ve got a lot on my plate. Look, don’t worry. I’m still your date to the wedding—unless you get a better offer ,” Mitchell had said, waving to Alec. “ In the meantime, I’ll see you when I see you. ”
And with that, despite feeling conflicted, Mitchell had climbed into the back of the waiting taxi. He’d known Tommy stood watching him drive away, but he’d refused to look back.
Not everything had been doom and gloom. Zane had blossomed. His involvement with the theatre group had unlocked something in him, bringing him out of his shell and making him more vocal and animated. Mitchell had almost been envious, listening to his enthusiasm about his work backstage and his exploits around town with his new buddies.
One night during the past week, after an evening rehearsal, Mitchell had been checking the day’s countless unread work emails and listening without comment, nodding occasionally, while Zane had sat cross-legged on the sofa and gushed about Tommy’s fantastic stage set and how inspiring he was to work with. Mitchell had only looked up from his laptop when Zane had stopped talking.
“ Why have you ghosted him ?” Zane had asked.
“ Ghosted ?”
“ Tommy says you’re not answering his calls or messages .”
“ Work is crazy, Zane. You know that. Each day has been packed with redundancy meetings or exit interviews. I don’t have time for much else. Certainly not socialising .”
“ You’re coming to the final performance .”
“ I really hope —”
“ No, Mitchell. That is not a question. Everybody needs a day off, even you. And I have a ticket for you. You’re coming to see what all the fuss has been about and you’re coming with me to Tommy’s after-show birthday party .”
Mitchell had laughed then.
“ You know you sound just like your mother sometimes ?”
“ Say it, Mitchell. Say you’re coming .”
“ Yes, Zane. I’m coming .”
“ Good .” Zane had jumped up and headed towards the kitchen. “ Talking of which, don’t forget we’ve agreed to FaceTime Mum and Dad on Saturday evening. I’m grabbing a beer from the fridge. Join me ?”
“ There’s a bottle of white wine open in there. Pour me a glass .”
While Zane had disappeared into the kitchen, Mitchell had realised how much he would miss having his nephew around. But he also knew they had forged a new and enduring relationship. They’d sat up that night until one, with Zane telling him about the things he had seen and done with his Hong Kong friends, opening up about his determination to put the work in at university, to make his parents proud, and his gratitude to Mitchell at having invited him to Hong Kong.
Mitchell yawned then looked at the clock. Almost ten. He’d planned to have a day to himself. Enjoying his newfound independence, Zane would most likely be meeting up with his new friends. Maybe Mitchell would take his motorbike out for a spin. As he lay there, considering finally getting up, he heard movement coming for the main room, followed by a soft tap on his bedroom door.
“Are you awake?” came Zane’s voice.
“Awake and decent. Come on in.”
Zane entered, carrying a mug of tea for Mitchell. He was already showered, dressed and ready for the day, togged out in pressed khaki shorts and a long-sleeve shirt in red cotton.
“Mitchell, I need a favour. I’ve been invited to lunch with Emily and her folks. I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet, but she’s studying law in the UK. She’s been offered a place at Bradford Uni. That’s thirty minutes’ drive from the campus in Leeds.”
“I see. Does your mother know?”
Mitchell fought back a smile, knowing Tommy would have picked up on the ABBA song reference. But then Mitchell remembered his new resolve.
“My mother doesn’t need to know everything.”
“And this favour is what? Me not telling her?”
“No, of course not,” said Zane, grinning. “Straight after lunch, we have the chance to get into the theatre where the play’s being performed. We had a group message this morning. They’ve given us two hours for the lighting and backstage crew to go and see how everything works and get a feel for the space. The thing is, Emily really needs the lighting and set change plan, which is hanging on a clipboard back at school. I’d normally have asked Tommy, but he’s not around today, doing something for his sister’s wedding. I know it’s a bit of an ask, but would you mind going to the school at midday—Shelly’s there rehearsing with the rest of the cast—and bringing us a copy?”
“What, I’m your personal messenger now?”
“Please, Mitchell. We could go, but we’d miss the chance to have lunch with Emily’s family.”
“And the school will be open?”
“Head through the main entrance and straight down to the end. Except for us, the place is empty on Sundays. Follow the sound of voices. There are two small studios next to each other that are normally used for dance classes. There are glass panels in the doors, so you’ll see which one they’re using.”
“Okay. I wanted to take my bike for spin anyway. Where do I bring this paperwork?”
“Do you know the Hong Kong Academy of Performing Arts in Wanchai?”
“I do.” The location was perfect. He could drop off the documents before riding his bike through the cross-harbour tunnel and eventually into the New Territories.
“We’re in one of the smaller theatres. Text me once you reach the main lobby. I’ll send Shelly a message and let her know you’re coming to the school.”
“Okay. Out of interest, where are the parents taking you for lunch?”
Zane smirked and folded his arms.
“I wondered if you’d ask. They’re taking us to a local dim sum restaurant.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“I owe Harold an apology. I wasn’t in a good headspace when I arrived. But my friends have taken me for chow I would never normally have touched and I guess dim sum grows on you. I’ve even joined them for a seafood dinner, a place called Chilli Crab Under The Bridge to feast on something they call hairy crab. Sounds gross, doesn’t it, but they’re delicious served with chunks of deep-fried garlic. Emily even made me a breakfast of rice congee, which looks like rice pudding but is savoury rather than sweet—”
“I know what congee is, Zane. I’m just surprised you do.”
“Are you kidding? Emily likens it to chicken noodle soup, something simple to eat if you’re feeling under the weather. She made mine with shredded chicken, spring onions, ginger, soy sauce and added this local chilli sauce. We even had these fat noodle-covered doughnut sticks to dunk in. She’s promised to make me some when we’re back in England.”
“Are you sure you want to go home?”
Mitchell had meant the comment as a joke, but Zane’s face became serious.
“I’m definitely coming back, Mitchell. I can see why you like living here.”
“There are pros and cons to living anywhere in the world. Believe it or not there are things I miss about the UK. And life can be significantly different in Hong Kong when you have to work for a living. But I’m glad you’ve come to appreciate why your uncle stays. Maybe your mother will back off a bit now I have you on my side.”
* * * *
Mrs Lau’s doorway stood open as Mitchell descended the stairs in his biking leathers, which meant she would be hovering inside. He called out a greeting and she appeared, smiling as ever. They chatted briefly about Mitchell’s life and his nephew before she handed him a single letter.
“Nothing much today. Just another receipt from Mrs Zhang.”
Mitchell carefully unpeeled the envelope in front of her and stared at the inclusion of a red card with gold lettering. Two rows of four characters. Without a word, she took the card from him and shook her head.
“How to explain this? I will translate each word for you. ‘Timber already become boat; raw rice boiled into cooked rice.’ I think it means that when some things are done, they can’t go back to what they were originally. Does that have any meaning for you?”
“Maybe. I suppose we would say something like what’s done is done. There’s no going back. Not sure how that relates to me, but I’ll keep you posted.”
He pulled up outside the Sino-Anglo International School, where the tall aluminium gates appeared to be locked. Until he noticed a side gate left open. As he locked up his bike on the road, his phone rang in his jacket pocket. He assumed the call was from Zane even though the display read Unknown Caller. Maybe he was using somebody else’s phone.
“Mitchell Baxter,” he answered.
“Mitchell, don’t hang up,” came a female voice he recognised vaguely. “It’s Gemma Chu from JM Recruitment Consultants.”
A wave of anger rose in Mitchell. He’d endured weeks of dealing with work problems. Could he not just have one uninterrupted weekend to himself?
“How did you get this number?” he asked sharply.
“Look, don’t be mad. I know it’s the weekend and I’m sure the last thing you want is to discuss work. Your organisation is the talk of the town right now. But I wanted to speak to you personally. And privately. Can you give me five minutes? And actually, you gave me this number. When you were looking for a cryptocurrency specialist while you were visiting your Singapore office back in January.”
Gemma Chu. They’d had four or five coffee morning meetings over the years, talking about filling critical positions. Professionally, she had climbed the ladder of the recruitment specialist agency with frightening speed, until she had become one of the partners. He admired her efficiency and used her regularly because she asked insightful questions about each role and listened, sending only suitable candidates for interview and keeping in constant touch throughout the process.
“Sorry, Gemma. You’re right, my life of late has been a disaster movie. But just so we’re not wasting each other’s time, we’re not recruiting anyone right now.”
“No,” said Gemma, laughing. “But we are. That’s why I’m calling. We have a brand new position for a full-time senior recruitment manager coming up, someone who has in-depth knowledge of the banking sector. Would be a bonus if this person also had human resources experience and could turn their hand to training on general office topics. Can you manage a breakfast meeting before work on Monday? With me and our head partner. Say seven-thirty?”
“Wait,” said Mitchell, confused. “You want me to interview—”
“Not interview, Mitchell. Our consultancy knows everything there is to know about you. This is for a fireside chat and to see if what we’re offering could entice you to join us.”
“I—yes, I can meet with you both.”
“Do you know Coffee Maestro on Montague Street?”
Mitchell laughed. “I know it well. See you there. Seven-thirty Monday morning.”
After Gemma signed off, Mitchell stared at his display. Harold’s words came back to him about the world moving on and how Mitchell had marketable skills. Until that point, an inertia had overtaken him as though he was standing unmoving in the darkness. But now the sun peeked over the horizon. He might not like what they offered, but the chat would be a first step to get him moving forward.
After expelling a deep sigh, he stepped through the side gate and up the steps to the school entrance. Just as Zane had said, the door pushed open. Inside, the municipal corridor of grey and lemon yellow stood empty. Noticeboards with colourful posters and flyers, and intermittent classroom doors, lined the walls.
As he made his way down the wide passage, oddly familiar smells of paints or crayons and other indescribables reminded him of his childhood. At odds with what Zane had said, a student was practising scales on a stringed instrument somewhere in the depths of the building. Only as he moved farther into the school did the child begin to play the opening strains of a tune. Walking to the open doorway on his right from where the sound flowed, Mitchell decided to poke his head in and perhaps wave a quick hello to the young musician.
Except he found not a child sitting there but Tommy Chow.
Tommy perched on a plastic chair at the far end of the vast empty gymnasium, dressed in white shorts and a hot pink T-shirt, an elegant cello cradled between his thighs. Mitchell marvelled at how comfortable and natural he appeared. His body swayed with the all-too-familiar melody issuing from the instrument as the bow moved back and forth across the strings. Originally written for the violin, the haunting theme from Schindler’s List took on a whole new meaning for Mitchell, played on the mournful cello.
He began to retreat but stopped. Something drew him in. Each precise and sorrowful note filled the empty hall with such eloquent sadness, bringing back memories. Instead of leaving, he leant against the sharp frame of the open door and closed his eyes.
The night of his death, Joel had dragged Mitchell and three of their friends to see a late showing of Schindler’s List while they were undergraduates at Warwick. Joel had sat mesmerised through the whole film, holding painfully tightly onto Mitchell’s hand and unashamedly letting tears flow. Afterwards, Mitchell had refused drinks, claiming tiredness from pulling all-nighters and wanting to go home to bed. Joel had been buzzed and insisted on staying out to party, promising to get a cab home.
Mitchell still remembered being awakened the following morning by a call from Joel’s parents. They had been contacted by the police in the early hours to tell them about their son. A lorry driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel and ran a red light had crashed into the back of the taxi carrying Joel back to their digs. Despite valiant efforts of the emergency services team, Joel had died on the way to the hospital.
Memories came back to Mitchell of the boyfriend who had seen the good in everyone and everything despite experiencing his fair share of hate and discrimination, who had loved nothing more than making dinner, dancing and singing along to music like some cheesy character from a Disney movie, someone who had loved life—and Mitchell—with all his heart, and had carefully mapped out their future in his head.
And the loss got worse over time. Tins of food no longer carefully lined up in cupboards with their labels facing forward like a well-stocked supermarket. The bookshelf lined with Joel’s collection of wolf memorabilia comprising figurines, framed photos or picture mugs, all left to gather dust. No more insistence on kisses and cuddles before lights out, no catching Joel in the kitchen after cleaning the floor, ballroom dancing around the room with the mop while using a tea towel tied to each foot to dry the floor tiles.
At Joel’s funeral they’d played the theme tune to Schindler’s List as the curtain had slowly closed around the coffin. Mitchell had sat pale and impassive through the whole ceremony. Joel’s mother and sister had both been sobbing messes, holding onto each other, permitting him to ignore himself and concentrate on doing his best to console them.
On his way to and from the car park he had walked beneath a black golf umbrella through torrential rain. Not a single droplet had touched him. His shoes had only become wet because of random puddles. At the time, the rain had been like his numbness, shocking, elemental and never-ending, but something he could protect himself from. Maybe he should have collapsed the umbrella and let the rain soak him to the skin.
Hindsight had become his tormentor, and guilt and blame were ingrained in him. Why had he had to be selfish about being tired when he could have stayed out a little longer to enjoy drinks with their friends? What hardship would that have been? Or why hadn’t he insisted they go home together instead of surrendering so easily to Joel’s stubbornness? At the inquest, he couldn’t even feel anger towards the lorry driver who had also died, a single-parent father of four kids working insane hours to put food on the table.
Dark weeks had followed. Bad food habits and insobriety had become his sanctuary, a way to lose himself, the inevitable hangovers a deserved punishment.
Intervention had appeared in the form of his sister. No shouting, no lectures, no rationalising his emotional state—everything he would have expected from his firm and pragmatic sibling. Instead she had broken down in front of him, told him she forbade her brother from giving in to despair like their mother had. She needed him strong, needed to know that he would be there for her and her family in case she had to face dark hours of her own. She would not leave until he had promised.
Before she’d left, he had tried to soothe her by shaving, showering and changing into clean clothes, as well as swearing off drinking. Although the anguish had remained, he had buried himself in his studies, attained a respectable degree, good enough to get him onto a graduate programme with a leading bank, and worked at surviving. When he’d first seen the position advertised internally, a role based in Hong Kong, he had barely paid the posting any notice. Until one night, as he had lain awake, images of Joel had danced across his vision. The following day, without consulting anyone, he had applied.
In his head, he had rationalised that he could escape his pain by fleeing to Hong Kong. A new life, a new start, a safe Mitchell. If he could immerse himself in work and prioritise his profession, his company would protect him. He would honour Joel’s memory by never getting close to anyone. And he would stay away from vain and heartless men like Tommy Chow, who had no emotional depth and who, if he let them, could hurt him deeply.
He could almost hear Joel’s exasperated voice telling him he had everything wrong. Joel would have wanted to be remembered as a force of nature, his life filled with laughter and love, not a cold stone statue to be worshipped.
Mitchell had been wrong about so many things.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, as the music echoed through the hall, he allowed himself to cry, quietly and privately, not wanting to alert anyone and especially not wanting to give Tommy cause to stop playing.
As he took a deep breath and dabbed at his eyes before stepping away and moving on down the corridor, he heard words in his head, words wrapped in Joel’s voice.
Enough .
You can let go now.