It obviously knocked him out and when he came awake quite suddenly it was dark. He got up, visited the toilet, and splashed water over his face. In the mirror he looked truly awful and he shuddered and went downstairs. He checked his watch. It was seven-thirty. He really needed something to eat, he knew that, and yet the prospect of food was repugnant to him.
Perhaps a walk would clear his head and then he could find a cafe. He opened the front door. Rain fell gently in a fine mist through the light of the street lamp on the corner. He pulled on his jacket, aware of the weight of the Walther, and paused, wondering whether to leave it, but the damn thing had been a part of him for so long. He found an old Burberry trenchcoat and a black umbrella and ventured out.
He walked from street to street, pausing only once to go into a corner pub where he had a large brandy and a pork pie, which was so disgusting that just one bite made him want to throw up.
He continued to walk aimlessly. There was a certain amount of fog now, crouching at the end of the street, and it gave a closed-in feeling to things as if he was in his own private world. He felt a vague sense of alarm, probably drug paranoia, and somewhere in the distance Big Ben struck eleven, the sound curiously muffled by the fog. There was silence now, and then the unmistakable sound of a ship's foghorn as it moved down river, and he realized the Thames was close at hand.
He turned into another street and found himself beside the river. There was a corner shop still open. He went in and bought a packet of cigarettes and was served by a young Pakistani youth.
"Would there be a cafe anywhere near at hand?" Dillon asked.
"Plenty up on High Street, but if you like Chinese, there's the Red Dragon round the corner on China Wharf."
"An interesting name," Dillon said, lighting a cigarette, hand shaking.
"The tea clippers used to dock there in the old days of the China run." The youth hesitated. "Are you all right?"
"Nothing to worry about, just out of hospital," Dillon said, "but it's kind of you to ask."
He walked along the street past towering warehouses. It was raining heavily now, and then he turned the corner and saw a ten-foot dragon in red neon shining through the rain. He put down his umbrella, opened the door, and went in.
It was a long, narrow room with dark paneled walls, a bar of polished mahogany, and a couple of dozen tables each covered with a neat white linen cloth. There were a number of artifacts on display and Chinese watercolors on the wall.
There was only one customer, a Chinese of at least sixty with a bald head and round, enigmatic face. He was no more than five feet tall and very fat, and in spite of his tan gabardine suit bore a striking resemblance to a bronze statue of Buddha, which stood in one corner. He was eating a dish of cuttlefish and chopped vegetables with a very Western fork and ignored Dillon completely.
There was a Chinese girl behind the bar. She had a flower in her hair and wore a cheongsam in black silk, embroidered with a red dragon which was twin to the one outside.
"I'm sorry," she said in perfect English. "We've just closed."
"Any chance of a quick drink?" Dillon asked.
"I'm afraid we only have a table license."
She was very beautiful with her black hair and pale skin, dark, watchful eyes and high cheekbones, and Dillon felt like reaching out to touch her and then the red dragon on her dark dress seemed to come alive, undulating, and he closed his eyes and clutched at the bar.
Once in the Mediterranean on a diving job for the Israelis that had involved taking out two PLO high-speed boats that had been involved in landing terrorists by night in Israel, he had run out of air at fifty feet. Surfacing half-dead he'd had the same sensation as now of drifting up from the dark places into light.
The fat man had him in a grip of surprising strength and put him into a chair. Dillon took several deep breaths and smiled. "Sorry about this. I've been ill for some time and I probably walked too far tonight."
The expression on the fat man's face did not alter, and the girl said in Cantonese, "I'll handle this, Uncle, finish your meal."
Dillon, who spoke Cantonese rather well, listened with interest as the man replied, "Do you think they will still come, niece?"
"Who knows? The worst kind of foreign devils, pus from an infected wound. Still, I'll leave the door open a little longer." She smiled at Dillon. "Please excuse us. My uncle speaks very little English."
"That's fine. If I could just sit here for a moment."
"Coffee," the girl said. "Very black and with a large brandy."
"God save us, the brandy is fine, but would you happen to have a cup of tea, love? It's what I was raised on."
"Something we have in common."
She smiled and went behind the bar and took down a bottle of brandy and a glass. At that moment a car drew up outside. She paused, then moved to the end of the bar and peered out through the window.
"They are here, Uncle."
As she came round the end of the bar, the door opened and four men entered. The leader was six feet tall with a hard, raw-boned face. He wore a cavalry twill car coat that looked very expensive.
He smiled quite pleasantly. "Here we are again then," he said. "Have you got it for me?"
The accent was unmistakably Belfast. The girl said, "A waste of your time, Mr. McGuire, there is nothing for you here."
Two of his companions were black, the fourth an albino with lashes so fair they were almost transparent. He said, "Don't give us any trouble, darlin', we've been good to you. A grand a week for a place like this? I'd say you were getting off lightly."
She shook her head. "Not a penny."
McGuire sighed, plucked the bottle of brandy from her hand, and threw it into the bar mirror, splintering the glass. "That's just for openers. Now you, Terry."
The albino moved fast, his right hand finding the high neck of the silk dress, ripping it to the waist, baring one of her breasts. He pulled her close, cupping the breast in one hand.
"Now then, what have we here?"
The fat man was on his feet and Dillon kicked a chair across to block his way. "Stay out of this, Uncle, I'll handle it," he called in Cantonese.
The four men turned quickly to face Dillon and McGuire was still smiling. "What have we got here then, a hero?"
"Let her go," Dillon said.
Terry smiled and pulled the girl closer. "No, I like it too much." All the frustration, the anger and the pain of the last few weeks rose like bile in Dillon's mouth and he pulled out the Walther and fired blindly, finishing off the bar mirror.
Terry sent the girl staggering. "Look at his hand," he whispered, "he's shaking all over the place."
McGuire showed no sign of fear. "The accent makes me feel at home," he said.
"I mind yours too, old son," Dillon told him. "The Shankhill or the Falls Road, it's no difference to me. Now toss your wallet across."
McGuire didn't even hesitate and threw it on the table. It was stuffed with notes. "I see you've been on your rounds," Dillon said. "It should take care of the damage."
"Here, there's nearly two grand there," Terry said.
"Anything over can go to the widows and orphans." Dillon glanced at the girl. "No police, right?"
"No police."
Behind her the kitchen door opened and two waiters and a chef emerged. The waiters carried butchers' knives, the chef a meat cleaver.
"I'd go if I were you," Dillon said. "These people have rather violent ways when roused."
McGuire smiled. "I'll remember you, friend. Come on, boys," and he turned and went out.
They heard the car start up and drive away. What little strength Dillon had left him. He sagged back in the chair and replaced the Walther. "I could do with that brandy now."
And she was angry, that was the strange thing. She turned on her heel and pushed past the waiters into the kitchen.