Chris Thrall - Eating Smoke: One Man’s Descent into Drug Psychosis in Hong Kong’s Triad Heartland

CHAPTER 11

SARAH COMES TO STAY

Albeit tinged with a vague sense of loneliness and lack of direction, life in Hong Kong continued to be exciting. Even the hours spent at Gung Wan Hong had their moments as the situations I found myself in and the people I experienced them with became increasingly bizarre.

Tom, the DJ, turned up for interview, still wearing the little red snooker ball amulet around his neck. Having his shoes on the right feet and knowing how to operate his eyelids correctly, he landed the job as I said he would.

He started right away and began the monotonous task of typing, addressing and sending out introduction letters ... to put off any potential client that might wish to do business with a normal company. He did incredibly well, despite having to listen to Fang San ranting and raving about the office, managing to last all of forty-five minutes before standing up and shouting to everyone in the room who, what with Fangs weird behaviour, were used to sitting in stunned silence How the fuck can you people do this shit all day long? And how the fuck can you work for that wanker? Then he walked out.

A few days later, it emerged that the Fangster had broken his own rule about not taking the girls in the office for karaoke, by doing just that behind Sandras back with Jenny, his sexy Eurasian secretary. God only knows how this adorable nineteen-year-old could have fallen for sixty-odd-year-old Fangs gopping lack of charm, but she had and shed become pregnant as a result.

I wasnt there at the time, but Peter Liu told me her mother had arrived at the office to scream herself inside out at the smelly-breathed Nippon Oil-sponsored bastard for procreating with her little innocent, and he just sat there, kept his big gob shut for once and took the bollocking!

She threatened to get a hit carried out on Fang. Knowing what an easy thing that is to accomplish in this insane city by simply bunging a few bucks to one of the desperate psychopaths making up a small but significant percentage of its population, he took to hiring a bodyguard a big old brute who looked as though he enjoyed crushing kittens and eating them in their skins, and who sat on a chair outside the office door with a two-foot length of lead pipe in his hand.

Fang also had someone paper over the window in the door so no one could see him at his desk and blow his brains out. I had to laugh when Pete Sax dressed in his office attire of thin red New Romantic tie (which clashed terribly with his ginger hair), short-sleeved shirt, oily jeans and steel toe-capped work boots sidled up and proceeded to draw bullet holes all over it with a Bic biro!

Id begun to get on well with David Niven all six foot three inches of his Britishness. Unlike Old Ron, whod asked, Chris, you know those stories you tell about being in the Marines? Well, theyre not true are they? David was far more secure in himself. He not only found my tales amusing but also knew not to disbelieve or insinuate that people felt the need to lie.

Dave bunked in with an old varsity mate who lived in the Mid-Levels. This exclusive retreat set halfway up the Peak, the islands most prominent landmark, is where anyone who is anyone or can afford to be anyone in Hong Kong society lives.

The striking ice-white condominiums have a magnificent view over the whole of the territory, with the business districts eye-catching Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation Tower and fellow edifices in the foreground.

At night, many of these mega-structures are lit up by spotlights, each with its own vibrant colour choice, as well as huge neon advertising hoardings on their roofs and sides, all of which sync to create the spectacular effect of an iridescent space-age metropolis. The air raid-like searchlights atop the bigger players shoot revolving fingers of bright white light up into clouds tinged with pink and yellow, like believers trying to contact far-distant life.

During the day you can look over the tops of the buildings and see the iconic green and white Star ferries as they chug a course across the busy harbour, seemingly oblivious to the container ships, cruise liners, junks, hydrofoils, sampans and speedboats running across their snub-nosed bows.

In the far distance, gigantic cranes swing around, offloading seaborne goods on the waterfront surrounding Kowloons cramped spit. These towering robots, more suited to a futuristic battlefield in a war of machines, are perhaps the ultimate symbol of Hong Kongs meteoric rise to become the trading capital of the world.

David and I would often discuss the potential to do business here. I would tell him some of my own moneymaking ideas, and he would say, Bloody ridiculous, old boy! like some Second World War Spitfire ace giving an indignant account in the pub of how hed just had to stitch up a Messerschmitt.

We got onto the subject of drugs. David didnt seem overly happy when I told him about how Id discovered ice. Im sure he muttered, Bloody druggy! under his breath but I found it hard to believe someone could be so blunt, thinking I must have misheard.

But then a strange thing occurred, adding to the growing collection of far-out fruit Hong Kong had served up during my short stay.

David and I went for a drink in Wan Chai one weekend, ending up at Ricks Caf, a well-known expat hangout, where we met a couple of his girlfriends. Dave introduced me to them by saying, Tara, Chelsea, this is my mate Chris. Hes a drug addict, you know.

It was a touch embarrassing to say the least. I opted to gloss over the remark because the girls clearly didnt understand what he was getting at. Later, I pulled him to one side. Dave, whats the idea, man! Saying shit like that in front of them?

Well, its true, mate, he replied. You are a fucking addict.

No, Im not! I lied. Im just doing what everyone else is doing. Everyones taking pills and shit back home, you know?

Yeah, right, old boy! Of course they are, he said, with a get-real look in his eye.

For the life of me, I dont know why my associates were all so freakin weird. They were nuttier than squirrel shit. Fang was away with the fairies, Ron lived in the clouds and Antoine was always tutting about the amount of non-existent womens underwear he had to dispose of before his parents visited so much so, I had a little joke at his expense when we were in Tsim Sha Tsui together ... a little military humour.

I knew an old mama-san there who Id met when scoring weed. She hung out in front of a dilapidated building touting for business for her girls.

I introduced Antoine to this ageing Suzie Wong, whispering in her ear that this young thrusters sex addiction was worse than James Bonds, and did she have anyone special for him? With a cackle, she turned to go and get Antoines date, only he jammed a cog with an Oooh ... errrh and ran off!

Gary was spot on, so were Pete and Emily Sax, but I think Neil with his trousers tucked into his boots and his travelling menagerie of exotic creatures and penchant for feathered hats was the most normal one of the lot with the exception of me. I had no issues, of course.

As if to prove my point, and sending the conversation into another dimension, David asked, Have you got any gear?

What! I couldnt believe what Id heard. You just put me through that embarrassment and now youre asking if Ive got anything on me! Fuck me! You do take liberties, Dave.