Earth to Hell. Kylie Chan

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       CHAPTER 9

      ‘Through the tunnel or around Pok Fu Lam, ma’am?’ Marcus asked. He was driving us to Aberdeen, where we would take the boat to Hell.

      I checked my watch: 10 am, Sunday. ‘Aberdeen Tunnel, please,’ I said.

      Marcus nodded and pulled away from the kerb.

      ‘You thought about that one for a while,’ Michael said with amusement.

      ‘You aren’t limited to regular travel,’ I said. ‘During office rush hour, or race meetings, it can take up to two hours to get through that tunnel. It’s quicker to go all the way around the island through Pok Fu Lam.’

      Marcus eased out of the cramped Wan Chai streets around the Academy’s nondescript building and turned left onto Gloucester Road, the main four-lane traffic snarl from Central to Causeway Bay. He carefully negotiated past speeding minibuses and taxis, then did a U-turn under the massive Harcourt Road overpass to take us back in the opposite direction.

      As we neared Causeway Bay, the traffic started to negotiate the complicated lanes system that diverted people to different destinations from the most densely occupied part of the island. Marcus stayed in the second lane from the right; if he drifted into a left lane he would be forced to cross the harbour using the Cross-Harbour Tunnel, and the traffic in that lane was already banked back about a kilometre. If he went into the rightmost lane, he would miss the Aberdeen tunnel turn-off and be diverted through Causeway Bay. I smiled slightly as I remembered many lost hours trying to make my way through Hong Kong’s unforgiving traffic system. If you found yourself in the wrong lane too early, you would be locked in by a single line and other drivers would become extremely aggravated if you tried to escape it. Once I’d missed the Aberdeen tunnel turn-off and found myself halfway up the side of the island in Tai Koo Shing before I could make a U-turn and come back again, only to be in the wrong lane when the Aberdeen tunnel sign came up the other way.

      Marcus had been driving us since Leo had gone, and he was familiar with the roads, particularly between Happy Valley and Wan Chai where he transported the students between the Academy and the Follies. He took us now up a narrow, steep ramp and onto Aberdeen Tunnel Road. The road was at second-storey height and we could clearly see into some of the older flats on either side; bare concrete walls, iron bunk beds, and dusty door and window frames.

      Just before we entered the tunnel we passed behind the Happy Valley racecourse. The stands looked like massive five-storey buildings with a complicated series of stairs and escalators running through them. On the other side, the open stands had layer upon layer of seating and indoor restaurant viewing areas for the race day visitors. Hong Kong’s race season was limited to the cooler months, and races only took place on Wednesday evenings in Happy Valley and on Saturdays at Sha Tin. There were no other race meetings in the Territory at all. The Hong Kong Jockey Club provided accommodation and transport for all the horses in the Territory; and at each race meeting — the only legal gambling allowed in Hong Kong except for the Mark Six Lottery — the entire GDP of a small country would be wagered.

      We whisked quickly through the Aberdeen Tunnel. On the other side, the view opened out; we were no longer in the dense urban high rises of Happy Valley. On the left were the prestigious large low-rise apartments of Shouson Hill, mostly occupied by expatriates who didn’t mind being a little further away from the action of the centre of the city. Directly in front of us, the hillside above Ocean Park was decorated with an enormous garden in the shape of a sea horse, the logo of the park.

      We continued through Wong Chuk Hang industrial area. Factory buildings in Hong Kong usually towered up to fifteen or twenty storeys, with each floor occupied by a manufacturing enterprise. Elevators large enough to hold the trucks that were Hong Kong’s transport life blood serviced each floor.

      Before we reached the ‘fishing village’ of Aberdeen, which was actually a tightly packed district of high-rise apartment buildings, we turned off and headed towards the Aberdeen Boat Club. Marcus wound through the back of the international schools and apartment buildings, eventually arriving at Shum Wan pier. A walkway with a traditional, upward-sweeping tiled roof meandered along the side of the long lay-by area, which was occupied by at least six large tourist buses. This was where the tourists were brought to have yum cha at the floating restaurants. They were ferried across from the two piers, one for each restaurant — the Jumbo and the Tai Pak. The Sea Palace restaurant, which had been moored next to the Jumbo on the other side, was long gone, towed away to become a tourist attraction in Manila.

      ‘Is the yum cha here still awful?’ Michael asked as we walked down to the old Sea Palace pier, now unused.

      ‘Couldn’t tell you. I stay well away from the tourist traps,’ Simone said.

      ‘The restaurants have been renovated recently, they’re much nicer inside now,’ I said.

      ‘You still pay tourist prices though,’ Simone said.

      I shrugged. ‘You pay extra for the “experience”.’

      Michael peered at the Jumbo restaurant across the water. ‘You’re kidding. A theme park on the sea?’

      ‘If you’re going to have tourists, you have to give them an “experience”,’ I said.

      ‘And something to buy,’ Simone said. ‘They put shops in there too!’

      No one seemed to notice us as we stepped over the chain blocking off the third pier and walked down towards the water. A number of noisy mainland tourists were on the pier next to us, shouting with excitement as the boat approached them.

      Michael chuckled. ‘Typical, going over to a huge restaurant for a banquet and they all have food in their hands.’

      He was right. Most mainland tourists carried bags of food around with them, usually small snacks such as dried fish or nuts.

      ‘Oh, give it up, Michael, they’re enjoying themselves,’ Simone said. She gestured with her head. ‘That looks like our boat, it’s completely non-tourist.’

      A five-metre motor launch was docked at the pier, its white sides gleaming. It had no registration or name. When the deckhand saw us approach, he pushed a gangway out to the edge of the pier for us.

      We boarded, Simone leading and Michael guarding the rear. As the deckhand prepared to release the rope, a middle-rank demon appearing as a young Chinese man dressed in a smart black business suit came out from the main cabin. He quickly saluted all of us.

      ‘Passage is payment of a black jade coin,’ he said.

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