Harbour Lights
Introduction
I was sat excitedly beside a grubby canteen window snuggled up in my father’s wool blanket; I was five years old and in Hong Kong. The night was late and my father was working at the docks unloading a beautiful new shipment of western art from a huge cargo ship that had docked into Hong Kong moments ago. The ship sat silent in the night; I could just make out its huge mass through the heavy rain. It was a frightening sight for someone so small but I loved the energy around the harbour, I loved watching my father work.
We moved to Hong Kong from England when I was very young, my mother died suddenly so my father decided to move away, as far as he possibly could. I don’t remember her very well; I can only recall her beautiful, angel like, features from dusty old photos. My father loved her and when she died so did a part of him, he changed, he worked to take his mind off everything. At the time I was perhaps too young to really understand the shift, he was still my dad and I looked up to him every waking moment, I loved him with all heart.
A small Chinese boy suddenly ran past me chasing a wet cat out of the front entrance, his fingers were covered in jam; it’s funny how you remember these things. The front door burst open and as the boy ran out into the night I saw a couple of black limos pull into the yard. The door closed. I pushed my nose to the glass and tried to strain my vision to get a clearer look but my breath kept fogging up the cold window. An uncomfortable air descended around me, the canteen fell silent and everyone around had come to stand beside me to look out across the docks. My little heart began to beat faster, I knew something terrible was going to happen and I wanted my dad. I pushed the blanket off and struggled to climb down from where I was perched. I wanted to go outside to get a better view. The wind was cold on my cheeks and a hand quickly came to pull me back in out of the rain but just as I felt the tug on my shoulder I saw my father, his finger was pressed against the chest of an elderly man dressed smartly in a suit. I was just about to call out to him when my ears erupted with the sound of gunfire, before my voice could leave my tongue my father fell to the ground dead. His fellow colleagues soon met the same fate; one by one they dropped hard to the floor like stones. Bullets peppered the canteen shattering glass and porcelain; the kitchen burst a light with flames. Around my chest someone’s arms held me tight. We moved to the back of the canteen and hid behind the storage bins. I hadn’t stopped screaming, tears were streaming from my burning eyes. In the bins I shivered and screamed until the world faded from focus. I don’t remember anything more.
I sometimes have nightmares about that night, I don’t know if what I see is real or not. Maybe they are memories that my mind had tried to erase, the horror being too harsh for a child to bare, to disappear and at times fade back into the mind’s eye when I’m asleep and vulnerable. For whatever reason I remember that night as I lay here, naked, in bed with a stranger getting his money’s worth. His boozy breath tickles my neck and I cringe. I try to fight back tears but I can’t, I turn my head and burry my face in a cushion, biting the fabric hard with my teeth. Maybe these recollections are my sad excuse to justify the direction my life has taken, maybe I just feel sorry for myself and I want someone to pity me.
I feel the man climb off, he snorts and I hear an elastic snap then a light thud in my bin. I bring myself from out of the cushion and stare out of the window and across the violent sea. I shiver even though the flat is warm; a nice open fire is crackling softly at the foot of my bed. The man slaps at my backside and throws a few hundred dollars my way. He chuckles to himself, collects his clothes and makes towards the door. “Same time t’moro,” He says in broken English. I give no reply and for that he laughs and leaves with nothing more to say. I can’t find the strength to move but when I do I collect the money and count it, he gave a tip. I catch my image in the mirror across the room, naked, watery eyed holding a wad of paper. A sad whore, a nobody. A cliché. A little girl lost just looking for her dad.
After the massacre at the Harbour I was shunted around as a piece of evidence, I never learned to speak Chinese so I never had a clue what anyone ever said to me. Before I could count to ten I was moved into an orphanage and given a half baked explanation to keep me company. For what it was worth I was told that the attack was an unexpected move by the local Triads, the news rocked all of coastal Hong Kong. No one ever really knew what had transpired that night. Only I, it seemed, had seen my father in direct confrontation with the elder Triad. As a young girl I never thought much about it, I don’t think I ever thought about anything for a while, but as I got older the image became stronger. I don’t even know if it happened the way I remember it now that I’ve analyzed it so damn much.
The orphanage however was a little box of hell, nobody liked me. I was the little English girl, the white meat. You’d think children wouldn’t mind, that they’d get along, you’d be wrong. In the small courtyard they’d throw pebbles at me if I got to close, some kids would even hiss every time I walked by. In the end I found a dark corner in the basement where I could hide for most of the day. Down there, in the dark, I knew the rats and the spiders would not pass judgment upon me.
My bed room was shared, it was a little match box with smoke stained wallpaper. I’ve lost count of how many times I awoke to find a spider crawling through my tangled hair or to the sound of the other children plotting a little scheme to ‘get’ me. The orphanage was owned by a group of young men and women, none of us ever got to know any of them properly. Now that I think about it I imagine many of them were simple volunteers. We had lessons a few times a week and handed a little work to do in our spare time. It was a cold place to live, love and sincerity had yet to come calling at this door.
I was now 10 years old and half way over the orphanage fence. I’d had enough, time to run away. I figured they wouldn't miss me; they’d enjoy the extra bread and milk. The orphanage was deep within the center of Hong Kong, the buildings towered over me like huge prison bars preventing me from escaping my fate. With my little head perched back looking to the sky the sheer size of the world around me caused my head to spin.
My dad always told me that if I’m ever lost ‘find a river and follow the current, you’ll always find the sea’. The harbour was all I knew and I wanted to go back, maybe to look upon it one more time before I’m found and brought back to the orphanage or die alone in the streets like a common rat. I decided to walk forwards and not turn back, where my nose would lead me was the direction I wanted to go in.
By nightfall the rain had arrived along with the rowdy crowd and the desperate. I passed ghost like between them all, my little body of no concern to anyone. Walking alone I felt trapped in a twisted fun house, the lights, the music, it all boiled up in my senses. I thought the world had gone crazy. But as the morning sun began to rise above the grey mist the sparkle of a beautiful sea twinkled in the corner of my eye. I felt a familiar hand reach out to me, I was nearly home. In the years that had passed the harbour had remained the same, I liked it. I could smell the fresh fish, hear the call of the seagulls and feel the energy of the workers again. My tummy tightened with excitement but like a band it snapped and suddenly I realized I was still alone.
In the following days no one had come looking for me, after a while I stopped hiding around in the alleyways, how foolish of me to think that I may have been missed, that someone might have tied searching. But one day, just as winter had begun to extend his frosty fingers and old woman found me shivering in a door way. She kindly handed me a chocolate bar, I took it without hesitation. The soft caramel melted on my tongue as pleasant tickle ran alone my spine and then I noticed a sparkle in her eyes that told me I was safe, I held out my little hand and she took it, pulled me from the cold floor and embraced me. I had forgotten the warmth of another and inhaling her generosity I fell asleep in her arms. When I woke found myself in a bed, a lovely open fire was alight with dancing flames at the foot of my bed. The old woman was sat asleep on the only chair in the room. I looked at her for a while; I had to fight the urge to leave. I’d been running for so long it felt like the natural thing to do but just as I was about to slide out of the bed I saw, sat on the bedside table, a pile of fresh fruit and a glass of milk. The warmth of love echoed from this old woman, how lucky I had been to be taken in by such a kind human being. I didn’t understand her, nor did I know her name but as time went on she became my mother, the mother I’d never knew. In my silly English way I called her Rose, she would chuckle and speak back to me in Chinese, and then I’d laugh because I knew that neither of us understood one another. But that did not stop us growing close, it never stopped us from expressing our love for one another. Rose eventually understood the name that I had chosen for her; why I chose Rose was simple. A Rose is a beautiful and pure symbol of nature, something precious and delicate. It was a fitting name and she knew it.
Every spring time, when the sun was being kind and the wind offered a refreshing hug we’d travel for miles on the train to arrive at this beautiful garden where roses bloomed vibrantly in colours of red and white. All around me was an expression of Rose’s love. It remains one of my happiest memories. I had battled through the thorn bush and been rewarded a brief and beautiful flower to hold and cherish in my heart forever.
I would live with Rose until my eighteenth birthday. I arrived home from school late in the afternoon to find the house empty, only a letter that I barely understood welcomed me. I never saw Rose again but in her kindness she had left me her home and what little money she had left. I fell to my grazed knees and quietly wept. I was alone once more. The flowers beauty had passed.
Once my studies came to an end I faded into the night, evolving with the life that breeds when the sun descends. I loved the music, I loved the way the drink made me feel, I loved how the world looked through the smoke of cigarettes and drugs and I especially loved the feeling of being held. It was a toxic mix but a remedy I needed. The noise drowned the little girl lost and left me an empty shell that could feel nothing but the beat of my favourite song. I suppose I was just being young but it was strange to fit in so easily for a change. The music was my language and the booze was my blood. The world no longer felt so foreign to me. But now, examining my pale reflection in the mirror I feel regret. The sad whore had gone; I could just see myself as a little girl holding hands with my father. My rosy cheeks flush in the fire light. I have my mother’s eyes and my father’s smile, the windows into my soul. Now at twenty-five I train my focus over my swollen features, I cannot see any resemblance. Deep in my gut I know I’ve forgotten the people who once loved me, if they all could see me now my heart would break. The money in my hand, an honest hours pay, burns as I look at it. I wish to cast it into the fire and rid me of the evidence of my life, but money is money and it’s all worth the same no matter how you earn it.
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