Chasing the Dragon Read Online Free PDF Page B

lose if you put yourself completely in God’s hands, you know.” Richard was quite serious. “If He doesn’t want you to get on the ship, He is quite able to stop you—or to make the ship go anywhere in the world.” I had visions of being storm-driven like St. Paul. I might land on a little desert island where one person wanted to hear about Jesus. It was an exciting proposition.
    “Maybe you will go all the way round the world just to talk to one sailor about Christ, or maybe you will go as far as Singapore to play the piano for a week of youth meetings and then come back.”
    Richard’s advice was extraordinary, but completely wise. Never at any time did he lead me to the impression that I was to get on a ship, grow a bun and get off as a missionary ready to do a “work.” He never suggested that I had to achieve anything at all; I had simply to follow wherever God led. I, too, felt that I could not lose on this adventure.
    So I went out and, after counting up my money, found the cheapest ship on the longest route passing through the most countries on its way. It went from France to Japan. I bought a ticket and was all set.
    Of course, there were my parents and friends and others to deal with. Understandably, some were skeptical. My father, very rightly, insisted that I think long and carefully on my “slow boat to China.” What right had I to give my religion to people in other countries when they had perfectly good religions of their own? Each parent was content about my trip but worried about the other. So I prayed, and one evening I heard them convincing each other that it was all right.
    The telephone book missionary society was less keen. “Very irresponsible advice for a vicar to give a young girl,” they cautioned. And I suppose it would have been had it not been the Holy Spirit who gave Richard Thompson the words.
    The day I left was one of those days when everything goes wrong. The taxi ordered to drive us the 20 miles to London appeared an hour late and then got stuck in a traffic jam on Vauxhall Bridge. I remember my mother frantically chewing white stomach pills. Gasping, I settled into the boat-train carriage with my nightmare of luggage and one minute to spare. Richard Thompson came running up the platform shouting, “Praise the Lord!” in a very un-English fashion, and the train pulled out.
    The immigration officer turned back to me in annoyance. For a moment, I was afraid that I had come all this way to Asia merely to be repatriated. Then I remembered that morning’s reading, “Behold your name is written on the palms of God’s hands.” If my name was written there, then God knew all about me. So perhaps the whole purpose of the journey was that I should get arrested in Hong Kong and locked up in the ship’s hold, and then I could convert the jailer. I could not lose.
    “Wait a minute,” I said, suddenly remembering my mother’s godson. “I do know someone here. He’s a policeman.” The effect was dramatic; the police were highly regarded back in 1966, and anyone who knew a policeman who ranked higher than mere immigration officials was clearly okay. On their faces I read, “All this bother from a stupid girl who is well connected all along.”
    They thrust my passport at me, muttering angrily that I could land on condition that I search for work immediately. As far as they were concerned, my money would not last three days in Hong Kong.

3
    THEY CALL IT DARKNESS
    T he Walled City is guarded day and night by a ceaseless army of watchers. As soon as a stranger approaches, the watchers pass the word. Their flip-flops flapping, the boys run between the noodle stalls, through doorways, across narrow alleys and up staircases. Grass Sandal whispers to Red Bamboo Pole, who respectfully communicates the news to Golden Paw. The leaders of the crime syndicate have colorful names, but their activities are sordid. To strangers, the real business of the Walled City is invisible; doors close,