The Year of the Woman by Jonathan Gash Page B

who fancied her. It swished by.
    He held a knife, so small it almost could have been amusing in other circumstances.
    “Handbag,” he said.
    “I have nothing,” she said, which was true.
    Then she remembered the Rolex watch, that had appeared so mysteriously in her shack, and felt her rice meal try to force itself back up her throat. Bile rose. She had declared her own death, for street thieves hated to be lied to. He would kill her.
    “Give me red, or I take red!”
    It was the street thief’s standard line, red or red. Red hundred dollar notes, or you forfeited your red blood.
    “
Hung hung
. Red red!”
    He grinned, two gold teeth large and protuberant.
    KwayFay’s heart failed. This demand of street robbers was unknown thirty years go, but now was the most feared confrontation. If you had none of the red $100 Hong Kong note, you would die.
    And she had lied to him. Double bad luck.
    Humbly she held out her handbag. He took it.
    “I am sorry,” she said with humility. “I forgot. There is a new watch inside. My friend’s gift.”
    Where was her friend now that she was about to die? Her unknown admirer, disturber of mirrors and leaver of priceless watches, why did he not save her like an American comic-book hero?
    Desperately she wondered whether to run across the road in front of some passing car. No use. The motorist would assume she was getting rid of some chasing ghost and swerve angrily. It was so common, the gambit of children who, imagining some pursuing spirit, would dash across swift traffic, narrowly escaping with their lives. The ghost, distracted from its prey, would then chase the motor car, and bring bad luck to the motorist instead, for ghosts travelled in straight lines.
    “What friend?”
    The thief rummaged in her handbag. She watched dully. He exclaimed and brought out the watch. A car went by, students shouting rude comments at the sight of a couple standing talking.
    “I do not know.”
    “You Queen’s woman?” he asked.
    That was the old English euphemism for prostitute. European women, though mostly American, over a hundred years before inhabited the area between Graham Street, Wellington Street and Hollywood Road, selling sexual favours for money.
    “No. I am office worker.”
    “Why does a stranger give you expensive watch?”
    “I do not know.”
    “How did he give it you?”
    “He left it in my home.”
    “This watch is genuine.” He grinned at her. “Friend pay well! Good climb volcano,
ne
?” Climb volcano wasHong Kong’s euphemism among the older generations for sex.
    “It must have been during the night. I saw nothing.”
    “What else did he give?”
    “I woke, and it was there. I was afraid. I might have been accused of theft.”
    “You speak truth?”
    She was about to reply when she noticed the strangest thing. The man shook slightly, as a dog emerging from water shook away moisture. A prominent bulge appeared in his abdomen. He looked down in vague surprise . KwayFay imagined a friend having tapped him on the shoulder.
    Blood seeped onto his clothes, almost black in the falling dusk, him standing with that stupid grin. Then blood spurted, narrowly missing her as she stood watching the weird performance.
    Two young men stepped round him, one muttering in annoyance as he almost stepped into the blood. They watched the man crumple and fall, and stooped to retrieve the watch.
    “You okay,
Siu-Jeh
?”
    “Thank you,” she said politely, staring at them.
    The speaker kicked the thief. “Die, you pig.”
    “He’ll end soon,” the other said, rubbing the watch with an unfolded handkerchief before politely offering it to KwayFay.
    “That’s not the fucking point,” the kicker said. “It was my knife.”
    The dying thief groaned and gave a great exhalation. They beckoned KwayFay and began strolling up the road. They paused, looking back.
    “Come on, Little Sister. We don’t want the police asking questions, do we?”
    “But he is…”
    What exactly was