Hungry Ghost Read Online Free PDF

so important to communicate after dark. A gaggle of Hong Kong Chinese tourists overtook Donaldson on his right and left before regrouping in front of him like fish passing a reef, talking incessantly.
    The sweat was now pouring off his back and he could feel rivulets of water dripping down the backs of his legs underneath the lightweight grey Burtons suit he was wearing. He shifted his shoulder bag, wincing as the narrow plastic strap bit into his flesh through the thin material.
    He reached the terminal building and gratefully sucked in lungfuls of cold air which immediately made his skin feel clammy. Immigration and customs were a breeze; Bali was obviously well geared up for tourists, and Donaldson saw two uniformed teenagers who he’d quite happily have died for. Or paid for. They both had skin the colour of polished mahogany, and beautiful brown eyes that looked as if they were brimming with tears, though they both returned his smiles with pleasant grins. Down boy, thought Donaldson. Later, in Jakarta, on the way back. A couple of days of R&R, a well-deserved reward for a job well done. Christ, he was getting hard again.
    As he walked from customs and into the arrivals lounge he was accosted on either side by Indonesian men, dressed in shabby T-shirts and frayed jeans and nowhere near as attractive as the uniformed youngsters from whom he’d had to tear himself away.
    ‘Taxi? Taxi? You want taxi?’ they chorused.
    ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Donaldson, starting to sweat again. ‘Which of you speaks the best English?’
    He took off his glasses and wiped the condensation off with his handkerchief for the tenth time since leaving the flying fridge.
    ‘I speak good English, sir,’ said a man on his left, about the same height as Donaldson but much thinner and with a drooping moustache. Like Donaldson it appeared to be wilting in the heat.
    The man seemed bright enough so Donaldson walked with him through the open doors towards a line of battered cars. Now that Donaldson had been claimed the rest of the drivers moved away in search of fresh blood. The Indonesian took Donaldson’s bag for him and led him to an ageing car of indeterminate make that could have been green, or blue, or black. It was parked some distance away from the terminal and there was no lighting so it was hard to tell. Twice Donaldson slipped into holes in the road as he walked behind his guide and he swore loudly.
    ‘Sir?’ said the driver, opening the rear passenger door and throwing in the bag.
    ‘Nothing,’ said Donaldson, sliding into the car. It appeared to be lined with some sort of fur, and brass chimes dangled from the driving mirror.
    ‘Go where?’ asked the driver.
    ‘Shit,’ said Donaldson, suddenly remembering he had no local money. ‘Wait here, I’ll have to change some money.’ He lurched out of the car and back to the terminal.
    The driver, unwilling to let his fare out of his sight, scampered after him.
    ‘No problem, hotel can change money,’ he said to Donaldson’s back.
    ‘We’re not going to a hotel.’
    That worried the driver and he waited anxiously while Donaldson changed a handful of ten-pound notes. The Mickey Mouse money had a hell of a lot of zeros and it looked to Donaldson as if he had instantly become a millionaire in local terms.
    On the way back to the taxi he explained to the driver where he wanted to go; to head for the Hotel Oberoi but to drive one mile past the hotel’s entrance to a crossroads, then to turn left. Howells was living in a villa close to the beach where the road petered out.
    ‘You want Oberoi Hotel,’ nodded the driver and started the car.
    ‘No, you idiot,’ snapped Donaldson, and he repeated the instructions to the smiling driver.
    When he’d finished the driver grinned even wider and said, ‘No problem.’
    ‘I bet,’ said Donaldson.
    The driver grated the car into gear and moved off, humming quietly to himself. It was sweltering. Donaldson tapped him on the shoulder.