Murray Bailey - Second to Sin
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Second
To
Sin
Murray Bailey
First published in Great Britain in 2023 by Three Daggers, an imprint of Heritage Books.
1235813221
copyright Murray Bailey 2023
The moral right of Murray Bailey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by ViknCharlie
Three Daggers
An imprint of
Heritage Books, Cornwall
Hed suppressed the urges for a month. The gambling, the dangerous liaisons, and the free climbing kept the heart pumping. But he knew nothing could beat the ultimate thrill. And the more he forced them down, the more the urges pushed back up.
Hed taken the ferry to the mainland and walked out of Kowloon Harbour, past the Peninsula Hotel, through the commercial sector and into the heart of Chinatown.
The electric streetlights thinned to nothing, but the lanterns burned strongly. Despite the cloud enshrouded night sky, the red glow at street-level provided ample light.
Rowdy sailors lurched across the street in groups. Safety in numbers perhaps.
He bought a double shot of whisky from a bar and moved on. He was soon a solitary white man in a suit, out of place in a Chinese world.
He attracted attention, but they welcomed him in when he watched their game of craps. There was rowdy noise, laughter, hoots and howls. These were men who'd worked hard during the day and were now working hard at forgetting their troubles.
He played a while and made friends with men who were happy to take his money. Then he moved on. He found a bar and drank more rough whisky. A new friend, a wiry man, all twitchy with awkward arm movements, bought him another drink.
Wacky, the man said, poking himself in the chest. My name: Wacky.
Charles. Charles Balcombe.
They knocked back another shot. Then Wacky was taking his hand and leading him to a game, betting and more drinking.
The night wore on. Wacky suggested he get a pretty girl, but Balcombe said no. He needed to get back to Hong Kong Island. To his own bed.
Clean girl, Wacky said.
Not tonight.
Another game then, Master Balcombe. This time you will win big.
Balcombe didnt win big and was overly generous with his losses. Other men tried to befriend him but Wacky barked and pushed them away.
Theyd steal your money, the Chinese man said with a grin.
Im losing it anyway, Balcombe laughed. Wacky laughed and twitched.
After two more games, a win then a significant loss, Balcombe said, I should go.
One more game. You have more money?
Yes, but Balcombe blinked and thought, looking at the few notes he had in his hand. I should stop now.
I will lead you back to the hotel.
The island, Balcombe said, his voice slurred.
You need the ferry, Master Balcombe? Wacky said, suddenly solemn. Too late.
A boat?
Wacky nodded excitedly and waved his hands. I will find a boat, Master Balcombe. Get you back to bed.
The twitchy Chinese man led the way, along passageways that smelled of rotten fish and human piss.
Is this the way? Balcombe asked, hesitating. The dock was in the other direction.
Wacky pulled his sleeve. Yes, yes. Dont worry. Yes, yes.
As he walked, Balcombe swayed like a man at sea, the peculiar gait of someone whose legs and body werent receiving perfect signals from the brain.
One more turn and the alley was dark. A cat wailed and scurried.
Wacky, I dont think Balcombe began.
A big man pushed out of the darkness.
He was Balcombes equal in height, over six feet tall, and he was wide. The big man looked twice the width of Wackywho had since melted away.
Just the big Chinese man and the white man.
In a dark alley.
Youre my friend, the big man said.
Balcombe looked behind him.
No one around. No witnesses.
I need a boat back to the island, Balcombe said, his voice slurred.
It will cost you.
How much.
Everything you have. Despite the darkness, the movement of his right hand gave it away. The big man had a knife.
Is this what you do? Balcombe asked. His voice now clearer as though hed suddenly sobered.
What?
Lure people here and take their money.
The big man grunted, took a step closer. Is your life worth a few poundsfor a friend?
No, Balcombe said.
He didnt move.
The big Chinese man didnt see a smile play on Balcombes lips. Blood coursed through Balcombes veins.
Your money! The knife came up, threatening.
Balcombe stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled something out; a bundle that looked like money in the darkness.
The big mans other hand came up.
What? he snapped as his fingers touched cloth. Not money, but a handkerchief.
The knife came up, thrusting.
Balcombe twisted. The handkerchief flapped open and towards the knife hand. Then he was holding the blade and yanking it.
The unexpected move left the big man gawping.
Who are you? the man finally said as he looked into Balcombes cold eyes.
BlackJack, he said. I am BlackJack.
Fear is for pussies. It was a message Balcombe had heard in the army. Sergeant majors shouted it at raw recruits. But it wasnt true.
His friend had told Balcombe the truth.
Hed said, Fear is God giving you the opportunity to be brave. What you feel is adrenaline getting you prepared. Dont worry, welcome it.
His name had been Charles. The real Charles Balcombe. Although Balcombe thought of him as Eric these days.
Eric had known excitement while free climbing. And hed died doing the thing he loved more than anything else in the world.
That feeling is what makes you live life to the full, Eric had said. Fear is what proves youre alive.
Balcombe tossed the knife into the sea and washed blood off his hands. The tingle was still there. It would flow though his veins for days. Fear combined with death was the ultimate rush. One day it would be his own death, but not today.
Albert looked at him askance, reading his face as he approached on the dock. Everyone thought the rickshaw boy just had an effeminate face. He was lithe, young and strong. But he was really a young woman.
You found what you needed, she said. It wasnt a question. It was a flat statement with no hint of judgement.
Balcombe said, Get me home, Albert.
A sampan was at the dock, and they climbed aboard. With no instruction, the pilot of the boat untied it and headed across the strait. Moonlight danced over the gentle waves as Balcombe stood alone at the prow.
Dozens of boats moved across the water between the island and peninsula. Thousands more were moored along the coastline, behind and ahead. Sometimes as many as ten vessels deep. Referred to as the Boat People, they appeared to be an extension of the land. An amorphous mass that rarely stayed still.
On the island they were kept away from Victoria Harbour and the commercial docks. The marine police mostly left them alone providing they werent blocking the waterways.
Balcombe could see their lights and hear the murmur of voices from almost half a mile away. The pilot steered for them, appearing to be another anonymous boat in the night.
Undoubtedly there was petty crime committed out there but providing the island inhabitants were safe the police didnt want to know. That was Balcombes impression, anyway.
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