37

HOW TO SWEAR PROFUSELY

Sing Sing comes along the side of the deck, her head bowed, feeling as desperate as she has ever felt in her fourteen years. She coughs out every Cantonese swear word she can ever remember hearing as she grew up on the margins of the world of the triads. Then she empties off her English vocabulary too. Unspeakable acts, unpleasant things. Even Zamora raises his eyes in shock.

The gang members are silent, ill at ease, as they escort her, Zamora, and Laura back toward the crew quarters.

She lifts her head for a moment. Looks out at the water. The night is pooling across it and clouds roll in to block out the sky.

She comes to an abrupt stop. There’s a lifebelt on the rail here—and she grabs it and, more as a gesture than anything else, hurls it as far as she can out over the side.

The man behind shakes his head and jabs her with his machine pistol in the back. Behind them, Tony watches the lifebelt as it floats away into the gloom. Thoughtful . . .

They sit dejectedly in the bulkhead storeroom.

When Zamora peels the tape from Laura’s mouth she has nothing to say. Just puts her head in her hands and sets her shoulders heaving silently.

“Maybe there’s still hope,” Zamora says.

“Come off it, Major . . .” she sobs.

“I managed to get a message to Ricard,” Sing Sing says. “At least, I hope I have. I had to bribe one of the triads on Cheung Chau to call Ricard . . . but I guess it’s too late. Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She kicks at the ground.

“That makes three of us,” Zamora says.