Chapter 6 The Councilwoman
THE COUNCILWOMAN
In the distance, Kowloon receded like an outgoing tide.
The rooftops of gray-and-beige buildings, just visible over the tall dust-colored wall which encircled them, were melting into the clinging smog. A haze of pollution softened harsh lines and tiny figures. Electric lights glinted dimly in shadowed buildings, as if winking goodbye.
Crammed in the backseat of a red Toyota, with Cobra Lily on one side and a grimy window on the other, Mercy watched her home disappear. The sight filled her with a rising panic. The fact that three other triad cars were following close behind them did nothing to soften her anxiety.
She wished, yet again, that Bao could come with her. But the ghost cat had to stay behind for this trip; no spirits allowed in civic buildings. Anyway, he’d only have hated it out here. Bright sunlight made him weak, kept him the size of a kitten.
“Remind me again, Chan.” Cobra Lily shook out a cigarette and lit it, the waft of tobacco and tar overpowering in that small space. “When was the last time you took a trip outside of Kowloon?”
“Never, boss.”
“What, really?”
“Came here, stayed here, never left.”
“That’s a long time to be in such a small neighborhood!” Cobra Lily laughed her tiger laugh. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be glad for a change of scenery. I do love coming to the city, when I can.”
Mercy looked out the window and didn’t reply.
She’d spent the past thirty-plus years living shoulder-to-shoulder with her fellow denizens among the claustrophobic high-rise buildings, circled by its wartime wall and walking its multi-layered streets whose gutters flowed like a blocked nose.
Where children played along narrow, sewage-stained sidewalks lined with tiny shops and smoky eateries selling cigarettes or fish balls, while hidden opium dens folded between mazed passages within bigger buildings—a total firetrap—and everyone paid the triad dues to travel safely at night.
Where the wet markets ran slick with guts and blood, chicken feathers tangled in canopies of wires amidst the steady drip of leaking pipes, and fu talismans of warding were nailed on every door to keep out hostile spirits.
That, to her, was home. A familiar, safe place, with its warren of narrow alleys and hot damp concrete on all sides.
The other face of Hong Kong, that she was now being driven through, looked very different.
Out here: strips of prickly trees, half-built boulevards, endless construction, big asphalt roads.
High-rise buildings, yes, but the streets were wide enough for cars and pedestrians to travel easily.
Space to breathe, move, think, stretch a limb or two, sometimes catch the sun.
Same as in Kowloon, preparations were underway out here for Hungry Ghost Festival.
The temples surged with crowds, all keen to come for prayers and fu talismans.
Street markets displayed charms, fans, incense, and paper gifts to burn for the underworld.
Almost no one was wearing red, and no one was wearing black.
Such colors attracted spirits, this time of year.
It was all very pretty, and far less derelict than what she was used to in Kowloon. If only that sky didn’t make her feel so overwhelmed and exposed.
Mercy leaned her head against the window and swallowed against a rising sense of nausea. Either she was getting carsick or homesick, and both were pathetic reactions. She needed to get her shit together, and not embarrass her boss. It was crucial they make a good impression.
In truth, Mercy had always intended to move back out to the main city.
All the opportunities, as they say, were in the bigger half.
But in the early years, the raging war and its desolate aftermath made it safer to stay put in Kowloon.
Later, poverty and lack of means kept her pinned. Inertia and habit did the rest.
These days, her skin had filled up with triad tattoos, while her bank account had filled up with triad money.
She enjoyed the intimacy of knowing her neighborhood thoroughly, of having a hard-won place and purpose.
The district had grown, and she had grown with it.
Now, at fifty-three years of age, Mercy knew only Kowloon.
The cars entered the Cross Harbor Tunnel, and darkness surrounded them. Mercy tried not to flinch. The idea of being under the ocean appalled her a little, especially since these tunnels had only been open a few years. You couldn’t really be sure how safe they were, she felt.
“May I ask a question?” she said, as much to distract herself as anything. “I know it is a serious matter, boss, but this has been tried before. The government never seems to get anywhere. Demolition doesn’t ever happen, and Kowloon endures. Why the concern this time?”
“That is true, it has been tried many times before.” Cobra Lily picked at some invisible thread on her sleeve. “But this application, with all its costs and careful graphs, is the furthest I’ve seen anyone go.”
“I don’t understand. What’s changed?”
“The anti-ghost laws.”
Mercy nodded slowly.
Hong Kong had increasingly cracked down with anti-ghost laws in recent years. It was a bad look for a world-class city to have so many spirits visible on the streets. Westerners did not like to see hordes of dead, and Hong Kong was trying to attract Western investment, along with Western tourists.
For the most part, Hong Kong had cleaned away its unwanted spirits.
But Kowloon Walled City was still rife with the unsettled ghosts, still carrying the spiritual trauma of World War II etched into its concrete walls and gutters.
It remained a catchment for the unhappy dead.
And thus the appetite to demolish Kowloon was growing.
Cobra Lily coughed a cloud of smoke. “One of the ongoing complaints that these dogfuckers keep leveling against Kowloon involves the ghosts that roam our streets. The ghosts they shoved in here, both during the war and after.”
“I understand,” Mercy said.
“Good.” The triad queen handed the remains of her cigarette to the enforcer next to her; he chucked it casually out of the rolled-down window.
“We must make a good impression today, if our arguments are to carry any weight. People think many things about me, but my attachment to Kowloon is genuine.”
Mercy did not doubt that for a minute. All of Cobra Lily’s power and money was tied up in Kowloon.
She owned many of the buildings, and was one of the biggest landlords.
If the place was razed, paved over, and swallowed up into the rest of Hong Kong, that would be the end of this triad.
They’d both be out of a job, and Mercy’s boss would likely land in a jail cell.
“I look forward to this encounter,” Cobra Lily said, opening up a small folder of appeal documents. “They will not be prepared for me!”
Mercy was about to say something in response, but then their car emerged from the tunnel and the ocean came into sight. She’d managed to avoid glimpsing the harbor till now, but there was no avoiding the view any longer.
To one side, the city continued to shoulder upward, bustling and heaving. To the other, Mercy now stared at a vast expanse of green water, glittering in the mid-afternoon sun. Ferries and junk boats and small vessels and big ships cluttered the waves, vying for space in crowded lanes.
Suddenly, her mouth was dry like an oven, her hands clammy. It was hard to breathe or blink.
Looking at the sea did that to her, even just in photos or from a distance.
Up close, the reality was far worse. It reminded her, with terrible clarity, of waking in a storm-wracked ocean, having no memories or possessions other than the clothes on her back and the bracelet around her wrist. Painfully aware that she was drowning—
“—but I anticipate we will have resistance to these claims in particular,” Cobra Lily said, tapping a particular page. “Chan? Chan, stop daydreaming.”
“Sorry, boss.” She dragged her gaze from the mesmerizing, sickening ocean view. “I’m just not used to being out here.”
Cobra Lily compressed her lips. “Clearly not.”
The rush of scenery slowed as the car pulled up onto the pavement, right in front of the Murray Building in Central District.
It was rectangular and white, with arches along the bottom level.
The windows slanted at an odd angle. She’d read once that it was designed to minimize hot sunlight streaming in.
The accompanying cars pulled up, too: one in front, two behind. Behind them, the street chugged with sluggish morning traffic, horns screeching in dismay at their awkward parking.
“We’re here,” the enforcer said, then got out and held the door for them both.
Cobra Lily stepped to the pavement with effortless elegance, pristinely dressed and collar turned up despite the heat.
Mercy, already sweating down the back of her neck and through her shirt, clambered out of the car with considerably less grace.
They strode into the Murray Building in a tight-knit formation.
They made an impressive group overall—Cobra Lily herself, in a white silk jacket patterned with black snakes, flanked by enforcers in sharp black suits and sunglasses.
Mercy, still sweating in their midst, was much less impressive, and her jacket was somehow already crumpled.
At least no one could see her very well, when surrounded by so many men.
“Excuse me,” said a voice in Cantonese-accented English.
A woman wearing a crisp gray dress suit, cut in the American style, was striding toward them across the air-conditioned lobby. She looked to be about late twenties in age, her face a confusing combination of youthful skin and cynical eyes. Very young, for an executive member, yet very confident.
She was not alone, either. Two nervous staffers followed at her heels. Behind them trailed a group of building security guards, armed with blackjacks.