The Norway Room (14 page)

SHUKO

23

Winter is the season of the Water element, but fortunately all that remained of the heavy rains of just an hour before was a dampness that hung so thickly in the air one could taste it. Not that it affected numbers. Fights taking place on the dark nights of winter were often better attended than those of the lighter nights of spring and summer: the cold dark perhaps creating an atmosphere preferred by the punters.

I vary the locations of fights over three or four venues throughout the course of the year. This evening we were using a redundant factory that stood within an entire complex of abandoned warehouses, workshops, small factories. The lights of the tower blocks of the Kingshurst estate, a couple of miles away, were blurred and smudged in the wet air; the roar of traffic on the M6 equally subdued.

Irregular black lakes stretched across the cratered ground designated as tonight's car park. The beam of Diesel's spotlight torch briskly swept through each vehicle as she checked with the driver their entry password before her girlfriend, Pauline, guided them with a smaller torch to one of the drier places to park.

I made my way through lines of cars to join her. I like to have a few words with everyone working during an evening. ‘You are doing a good job, Pauline.' I looked towards the line of lights awaiting entry. ‘About another thirty to get in. We should be ready to start in half an hour.'

‘Before that probably,' Pauline mumbled. Drops of water fell from her plastic rainhat to slide down her glasses.

When Diesel had seen in the last of the cars she pulled her wagon across to close the entrance. Pauline joined us as we manoeuvred our way through puddles and rows of cars to the derelict factory. Remnants of its working past were still evident: several metal hoist-rests high up on each wall; ceiling girders; some chain-holds still in place. Concrete platforms that had once been ramp stands offered the early arrivals prime positions from which to watch the evening's proceedings, like those who held boxes in the old Chinese theatres. But mostly the space was empty brick walls and blackened windows.

Knighton had rigged up a circle of light in the centre of the room, throwing the rest of the space into shadow, a very dramatic effect. At the back, smaller lights illuminated trestle tables holding bottles of beer for sale. There were bottles of spirits too, all served in plastic cups. To the left of these were the betting stands.

This was the second evening that I had put Knighton in charge of fights and there was no reason to regret my decision. He managed to find good dogs and had something of the showman about him, conducting each fight with a running commentary. He was very professional in consulting with his judges about when to finish a fight and declare a winner; there were never any complaints about this.

Betting is always highest on Staffs and tosas, both very determined and fearless fighters. The Chinese in particular, who usually make up three quarters of the house, are excited by these breeds.

I spotted Knighton getting a beer and talking to my relation Feiyang and his brother-in-law. ‘Uncle,' Feiyang bowed his head. ‘You have a busy night again.' He did not acknowledge Diesel or Pauline.

‘We have, I am pleased to say. Despite the poor weather.'

Knighton lit a cigarette and downed a third of his bottle of Tiger. He looked around. ‘You've certainly pulled 'em in tonight, all right. Reckon we're ready to go?' he asked me.

‘I think so.'

‘Right, I'll get things started. Give 'em five minutes then, Dies, will you?'

Cupping her hands to the side of her mouth and moving off into the spectators, Diesel bellowed, ‘First fight. Five minutes.' Pauline setting off in the opposite direction repeated the call, breathless and reedy.

‘First fight. Five minutes. Place all bets immediately. Last bets now.'

‘Last bets,' Pauline called. ‘Last bets now.'

‘Confucius fights Red Emperor. Last bets. Confucius versus the Red Emperor.'

In the circle of light the first dogs were being paraded. Each dog was walked through the circle alone, then they were introduced to each other, instantly rearing and snarling; a moment much enjoyed by the punters. ‘The dogs tonight are better than last time, I think, Uncle,' Feiyang told me. ‘I have been having a look at them. As good as you would find anywhere in the country. The Staffs in particular.'

I knew that Feiyang had attended recent fights in Newcastle and used to go to the big ones in Bermondsey that have stopped now. Many of the London Chinese who used to attend those now come here to Birmingham.

It is less the fights themselves that hold my interest than the reactions of the punters. Some follow the progress of the fight breathlessly. Their faces register each bite a dog sustains, they groan or cheer depending on where their money lies. When an animal locks its jaws on the neck of its opponent they raise their fists and shout for a win. And if a dog is then able to lift and shake its opponent there is a roar from those who feel sure their money has been doubled. There are a few I see who squint, or look away at the bloodier moments, but there are also those who will stare unblinking at the whole spectacle. They may as well be watching the oranges and lemons of a fruit machine passing before their eyes. Feiyang is a squinter, a looker-away; his brother-in-law, Chun, on the other hand, the man in the arcade, unmoved, except for a smile of satisfaction when his dog was declared.

It was in the time between the second and third fight that Diesel came to me. ‘I don't want to speak out of turn, Shuke, particularly about your relatives, but I'd have a word with Knighton if I was you about your nephew. I know you like to keep up with what's happening round town, and you might already know. But it was just something he said about Feiyang. About a connection with Crawford's people. Like I said you might know—'

‘No, that's not something I knew about. Thank you, Diesel.'

I slipped her a twenty-pound note.

With the agreement of the owners the last fight of the evening now went to the death. Knighton made it an exciting spectacle, exhorting the injured dogs to fight on, pushing and prodding with his gauge stick at any sign of retreat. Usually such fights end with both dogs dead, and tonight was no exception; the last dog to expire is the payout. A few regulars voice objections about matches to the death, but Knighton's reply is very simple. ‘It's just like bullfighting, mate, in Spain. 'Cept you don't end up with no steaks when it's all over.'

It had been a lucrative night. The punters were all gone and the money had been counted and sent back to the casino. Dead dogs are usually removed by their owners, but tonight one had been left for Knighton to dispose of. He hauled it into a sack and lifted it on to a pallet that Diesel helped him carry to his van. Pauline was moving through the circle of light that had been our arena with a watering can.

Although this is a derelict area, used by no one, it pays to be thorough, so I ensure that all evidence of our event is removed. In daylight Pauline will return to clear away cigarette ends and any bottles that have escaped our attention tonight.

It was wages time. No one counted the notes, they never do; they knew there would be enough. I had said nothing to Knighton of what Diesel had told me; I wanted to see if he would come to me himself. Not a word. I was disappointed.

I was parked just beyond Kinny Bridge when Knighton's van crossed it into the Mendy. I followed for a time then flashed my headlights. Recognising me he slowed and came to a halt, got out. He was wary. ‘Something up, Shuke?'

I opened my passenger door for him to join me and he got in. ‘I didn't have a chance to mention it earlier, not discreetly, but Diesel had a word with me. She said you knew something about my relative Feiyang that might interest me, some connection with Crawford. But perhaps she has it wrong.'

Inside the car we were in darkness, or at least there was insufficient light for me to observe the man's eyes, any flicker that might indicate unease, suggest deceit. There was sufficient light seeping in from the street for me to notice his left hand twitch, open and close, before resting like the other one flat against his thigh. ‘Oh yeah. I knew there was something I meant to tell you. I was going to catch you at the end but it slipped my mind. Sorry.' I said nothing, so he continued. ‘I told Diesel I thought you'd want to know. It's just that a few times now I've noticed Feiyang hanging around with that Kieran bloke who works for Crawford, a runner I think. Quite an important one though, judging by some of the cars he gets to drive. Twice I've seen Kieran come into the Bamboo Garden when I've been in there for a takeaway. And he's not there for grub. Or if he is, he eats with the family. He waves to the pregnant girl who's always serving.'

‘Feiyang's wife.'

‘Is she? He just waves to her and goes straight up the stairs.'

‘And have you seen them anywhere else?'

‘I've seen them in the Maddy a couple of times. Once they had those other blokes that live there with them, one of them was with him tonight. Another time they were chatting with a black bloke. Dreads.' If he had been uneasy his old confidence was now back. ‘Let's have a fag,' he said, opening the car door and stepping out. I joined him.

He offered me one of his Royals but I declined, taking my own from my jacket pocket. I accepted a light though.

‘I don't know how you can smoke those things. Rough as Old Harry. God knows what the cancer rates are like in China.'

‘You've got to die of something.' The refrain I had heard so often among the English.

‘I'd prefer something quicker.'

‘I am sure that can be arranged.'

Knighton probably wouldn't describe me as a humorous man but there seemed no doubt in his mind that this was a joke, and so he laughed instantly and loudly. ‘Very good.' And then, as if suddenly remembering something. ‘Eh, you're not pissed with me are you, Shuke, for forgetting to mention about Kieran?'

‘I wish you had mentioned it to me sooner. I like to know such things. It may or may not be important, but connections like that are always worth knowing about. Do you have any idea why they are seeing so much of each other?'

‘Well, I don't think they're mates. Not in the proper way. You lot like to keep to yourselves don't you? So, it could be that Kieran's recruiting for Crawford, or that there is some business going on between them. My missus said she seen them parking up in Essex Street one evening. About seven. She does shifts in the Metro Bar.'

24

For the second successive Thursday Yangku and I parked at the end of Rectory Street with a perfect view of Cathedral Apartments.

Again it was 11.20 when Trudy came into view. I had already decided that if she kept to the same schedule this morning as she had for the last two weeks it would confirm our plan and we would take her next week. And there she was – precisely on time again.

Miss Blossom is a tall woman, unusually so for a Chinese. She carried herself with willowy elegance as she drifted across the shop to greet us.

‘Casino men.' She bowed her head gracefully, and waved an approaching assistant away. ‘I will see to these gentlemen personally.'

Miss Blossom has been a regular canasta player at the casino for many years. Longer than the Dragons have run it, and there are stories that she played a part in arranging the Dragons' acquisition of this and various other places in their early days in Birmingham.

There are many stories about Miss Blossom. It was said that she left China as a child when her family came to Europe in the fifties. Her father was in the diplomatic service but defected before the Cultural Revolution took hold. Miss Blossom claims he was shot down on a street in Antwerp by agents of Mao Zedong. Her first husband was French, her second Irish, and she lived for a time in Dublin where so the story goes she helped eliminate unwanted pregnancies.

‘It is so pleasant to see a little sunshine today,' she said, speaking now in Mandarin. ‘Hints of spring. I noticed only this morning that the crocuses are coming out in my garden.'

Miss Blossom's Eastern Emporium, housed in an old Digbeth warehouse, is a cornucopia of goods from right across the East. There is heavy ornate furniture from South Korea and stone garden pagodas from Thailand on the fourth floor. The basement is crowded with Buddhas and vases and jewellery. Futons are on the second floor, and we followed Miss Blossom, still wearing high heels in her seventies, up the stairs.

‘Is this for yourself?' she asked me, reverting to English.

‘A visitor. One who will not be out much during her stay. I want something with a base, that may be used as both a comfortable couch during the day and a bed at night.'

She nodded and raised her hand indicating the futons with a base. ‘We have several as you can see. These are all the same, very comfortable. Try one.' I bought a navy-coloured one with cushions, some incense sticks and a blue dragon vase; I had not forgotten my promise to replace my rejected bouquet.

Two of the young black men I had seen going into the flat next door followed us into Nimrod House as Yangku and I carried the box containing the futon towards the lift. ‘Look eavy mate,' a boy in shorts said, moving ahead of us and pressing the call button for the lift. ‘Whaz in it? Tha's Chinese writin' ain't it?'

‘A futon.'

‘Waz that? Futon?'

‘Sofa bed,' his friend told him. ‘A Chinese sofa bed.'

The boy in shorts held the door for us when the lift arrived. ‘Fifteen or seventeen.'

‘Seventeen. Carrying down is easier than carrying up.'

‘You want some 'elp?' the other boy asked.

‘Thank you. But we're fine.'

The boys left at the fifteenth and were presumably inside their flat and doing whatever they did there by the time we got the futon down the stairs.

The room in which I have my bed is the room used by most people in this block as their living room. There is also a bedroom, and though I had considered keeping Trudy in the room with me, I decided that the futon should go into the bedroom, that I should respect her privacy.

Yangku, who is very capable with such things, fitted a lock to the door, while I arranged the cushions and the quilt on the futon, brought in the television. When Yangku left, I sat for a time on the futon, considering.

In a few days' time we would take her. She would be here in this room, sitting on this futon, lying on it. There would be white flowers in the vase beside the bed. At Miss Blossom's I had noticed pictures of Chinese landscapes, waterfalls and gorges. I would buy a couple.

The thought of a Chinese room containing only one person amused me. I lay back on Trudy's futon. As a youth my father had been prominent in the Red Guard of the Cultural Revolution, and in the first years of my life such service was still recognised with privilege. Though our flat had only one bedroom it had a separate cooking area, and the rooms were larger than most. Times changed, as they always do. The Red Guard were denounced as counter-revolutionary and Mao Zedong announced his return to the country policy. My father was sentenced to a programme of revolutionary re-education based on physical labour. We were moved to a communal flat: four families, two rooms. The luxury of space. Trudy will be in this room, I will be next door – a room each.