The Fireman Read Online Free PDF

asked. A ‘Sir’ would have been nice.
    ‘Such as?’ I asked.
    ‘Spirits, cigarettes, perfume, electrical goods . . .’ he rattled off a list.
    ‘Where would I put them?’ I asked.
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘I haven’t got any luggage.’
    ‘Where have you come from?’
    ‘London.’
    ‘England?’
    ‘I’m glad to see that the education standards in Hong Kong are every bit as high as they are back in Britain.’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘That’s all right, can I go through?’
    I walked past, nodding at his superior. I turned left, following the sign pointing towards the greeting area, through a double door which opened electronically for me and down a ramp towards a sea of faces. There was a mass of people and I swept them with my eyes, not a difficult task because most of them were Asian and I was looking for someone called Howard Berenger. I saw my name in capital letters on a piece of white card, held at waist height by what appeared to be an off-duty monk in a light blue safari suit. His face was well scrubbed and as hairless as a young girl’s, his eyes were bloodshot and his nose had a bluish hue. The hair on his head formed a thick ring and was as white and fluffy as cotton wool around a virtually circular bald patch.
    His lips were thick and red as if he’d been rubbing Vaseline into them, and his teeth were pure white. He must have been in his early fifties but he’d run to fat which had smoothed out the wrinkles on his face and he had the glossy sheen of a freshly picked apple. He’d obviously come to terms with his expanding waistline because his trousers looked as if they’d been specially made and were held up with a thick brown leather belt that could have been used to saddle a Shetland pony. Our Howard obviously liked his drink, and his food.
    He’d seen my look of recognition when I read the card and he dropped it into a bin and came over, hand outstretched.
    ‘Berenger’s the name, laddie,’ he said, in a thick Scottish accent. ‘Howard Berenger.’
    ‘Pleased to meet you, Howard,’ I said, shaking his hand. It was cool and coated in a thin film of perspiration. It felt like a piece of raw liver and I had to stop myself wiping my hand on my trousers when he let go.
    ‘No luggage?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘OK, let’s go. I’ve fixed you up at the Excelsior.’ He led me through the waiting crowds, and within six steps he was three feet ahead of me, moving gently and surely, negotiating his way with practised ease, while I was bumped and jostled. His hips and shoulders moved independently and there was no effort in his movements, despite his bulk he just glided along. He stopped to let me catch up, but after a few more steps I was lagging behind again. No one apologized when they banged into me, there were no smiles, just mute acceptance of physical contact which could not be avoided. I slipped behind Howard and coasted along in his slipstream as he carved through the chattering, noisy crowd. We went through another set of electronic doors and the heat hit me like a wet towel. I sucked in humid air that immediately soaked my face and hands, and I gasped. I took off my jacket and carried it over my shoulder.
    ‘God it’s hot,’ I said.
    ‘You’ve come at a bad time,’ he said, then looked away embarrassed as he realized what he’d said. Yeah, I guess it was a bad time. ‘It gets better though, and then we hit the typhoon season.’
    ‘This is like being in a sauna,’ I said, and loosened my tie.
    ‘You get used to it,’ he replied as we walked towards a waiting queue of taxis, red Toyotas with grey roofs.
    We got into the back and Howard leant forward and spoke to the driver.
    ‘Mandarin?’ I said as we drove off.
    ‘Cantonese,’ he said. ‘But I only know a few words. I can speak a bit but I understand hardly any of it.’
    ‘How long have you been here?’
    ‘Hong Kong?’
    I nodded.
    ‘Twenty-three years, on and off. I spent a couple of years in Indonesia somewhere along the