A Million Reasons Read online

  The beginning of yet another monotonous week—five days of soul-destroying boredom in a job he hated. Where had it all gone wrong? Just two-and-a-half years ago, his life had been wonderful—a beautiful wife, an interesting and challenging job, the future rosy. His hands gripped the edge of the basin, the knuckles turning white as anger welled up inside him. He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. He didn’t want to go there right now.

  Straightening up, he turned off the tap and returned to the bedroom to change into the running gear he had laid out the night before. Once dressed, he walked out into the living room, just large enough for a two-seater sofa and a TV, and into the even tinier kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down before retrieving his running shoes from the hallway outside his flat. He laced them up, then slipped his door key under the doormat, and caught the lift down to the ground floor, walking out onto the entrance podium of his apartment building. Despite the early hour, the air was already warm and thick with humidity. John still hadn’t got used to it.

  He loosened up his head and shoulders and glanced across at a couple of elderly Chinese practicing Tai Chi. He nodded a greeting as he watched them move with a gracefulness that belied their advanced years. John had tried it when he first moved to Hong Kong but needed something more physical, something to get the adrenaline going and boost his mood. He craved the endorphins that only came from hard, physical exercise, and Tai Chi just didn’t cut it. He continued his cursory warm-up and light stretches, then headed onto the road for his run.

  The first few minutes were always uncomfortable—it took John a couple of kilometers to warm up, to start enjoying the run. From his apartment building, he headed downhill, past the school toward the beach before looping back around Headland Drive, past the multi-million dollar houses he could only ever dream of affording. His mind wandered as he ran, thinking of the day ahead, and he stepped up his pace as a sense of dread threatened to consume him.

  At this early hour, there were a few other runners on the road, all trying vainly to avoid Hong Kong’s notorious heat and humidity. Apart from a few months in winter, you could never really escape it. John’s shirt was already soaked through with sweat. The route wasn’t a long one, about five kilometers, but without the run, he was a mess. It made him feel good, the endorphins giving him the boost that enabled him to deal with the day ahead. He pushed himself faster for the final kilometer, gaining satisfaction from passing another runner before slowing just before his building. Drenched in sweat and his heart pounding, he felt strong, confident, and ready, the memories of his bad dream replaced with a sensation of pleasant exhaustion.

  John had been in Hong Kong for almost eighteen months, and he loved the city. It was filled with an indefinable buzz and energy which he had experienced nowhere else. His time in India had accustomed him to crowds, but he had never got used to the chaos of an Indian city. Here in Hong Kong, things were different. It was crowded, the city never slept, but the city was efficient and safe, and that’s what he needed. It was his job he despised. The yawning chasm of loneliness that threatened to envelop him whenever he remembered his previous life didn’t help either.

  After the dreadful incident in India, he hadn’t been able to settle. He couldn’t return to work in the same company, and the faces of the men he had killed haunted his nights. He was drinking too much, not sleeping enough, and lonely. Terribly, terribly lonely. He’d needed a change, needed to pull himself out of a rut, so he bought a one-way ticket to Hong Kong, far away from all the people he had known before, far away from everything that reminded him of his beautiful Charlotte. He wanted to start afresh and heard the city was exciting and that plenty of jobs were available in his field of banking. Exciting it was, the energy tangible as soon as he stepped off the plane, but finding a job was much harder than he thought. He couldn’t speak Cantonese or Mandarin, and the international banks were increasingly localizing their staff and cutting costs with less and less of the bloated expatriate packages that had previously been the norm.

  Eventually, two months after arriving, he found a job working in a small financial advisory firm—the word adviser a misnomer. John was essentially a glorified salesman, flogging insurance products and funds to people who didn’t need them. But he needed the work. The city was expensive, and his funds had almost run out. He had nothing left from his previous life, having sold and disposed of everything.

  He was still in a rut, only the location had changed. It was only sheer willpower and his morning runs that helped him face the day.

  4

  It was over an hour with the air-conditioning turned on full before John had cooled down enough to have a shower and dress for work. He used the time to do some breathing exercises he had learned in India, followed by a few minutes of seated meditation, sitting on the cool marble apartment floor. The meditation was supposed to help him deal with the trauma of the past, but he wasn’t sure if it was helping. He did relish though the few minutes of stillness and persisted in the practice, hoping eventually, his flashbacks would end. By the time he finished, a pool of sweat surrounded him. He mopped it up with a hand towel before making a pot of coffee and heading for the shower prior to getting dressed.

  Despite the tropical climate, he was still expected to wear a suit and tie for work, no doubt a colonial hangover from when the British ruled over the island nation. It was completely impractical, but old habits seemed to die hard. Consequently, John would always wait until the last minute to get dressed—he hated arriving in the office sweating despite having taken a shower. Showered and changed, he glanced at his watch, realizing he had to leave immediately if he was going to catch his ferry. Straightening his tie, he picked up his wallet and phone from the bedside table and paused to look at the photo of Charlotte.

  His eyes filled with tears and a lump formed in his throat as he gazed at the beautiful woman in the photo. She was brutally taken from him during their time together in India, and the memory of what happened still cut through him like a knife. Her killers got away with it because of their connections and a corrupt and inefficient system, but he had wanted retribution. So, he hunted them down himself, killing them one by one, avenging her death, giving her the justice she deserved. It hadn’t brought her back though, and any satisfaction he had felt in his revenge had soon worn off, replaced with a hollow pit of despair. He had hoped the change of scene would help him, but he was just going through the motions, filling the days with meaningless tasks. He didn’t think he was depressed, he just lacked all motivation. If it wasn’t for his runs in the morning, he would probably have descended into alcoholism—or worse.

  John blew a kiss at the photo. “I miss you, Charlie,” he whispered, then turned and headed for the door.

  John lived on Hong Kong’s largest island, Lantau and had a choice of commuting by train or ferry. He often took the ferry as it was the highlight of his work day, the journey taking him across the harbor, through the small islands, and past the anchored container ships towering like multi-story buildings above the ferry before reaching Hong Kong island with its spectacular skyline and the verdant jungle-clad slopes of Victoria Peak. He never tired of the view, the sight of thousands of skyscrapers emerging out of the ground like stalagmites, each building swarming with people striving for success like hives filled with worker bees.

  The ferry docked in the shade of the International Finance Centre, and John disembarked with his fellow commuters, heading along the overhead walkway connecting the ferry terminal with the IFC Mall, joining thousands of fellow wage slaves heading to their gulags. John weaved among them as they shuffled along, staring at their phone screens, cut-off from the world around them. Not for the first time, John wondered at the futility of it all, spending every waking moment doing something you didn’t enjoy in the hope of a few years of freedom when you retired.

  He exited the IFC and crossed over Des Voeux Road, following the overhead walkway through the Central Market building and onto the Ce
ntral to Mid-Levels escalator, the longest outdoor covered escalator system in the world. At eight hundred meters in length and with an elevation of over one hundred and forty meters from its start in Central to its end in the ritzy district of Mid-Levels, it transported thousands of pedestrians every day up and down from the Central business district to the expensive apartment buildings in Mid-Levels.

  It was still too early for the escalator to move in the upward direction. Until ten in the morning, it moved downward, bringing executives to their offices. So, John climbed the steps next to it for two blocks before descending to street level. He needed another coffee before work and had a favorite place to buy it.

  John pushed open the door of the small cafe and smiled at the young Nepalese man behind the counter.

  “Good morning, Thapa.”

  “Good morning, John. Your usual?”

  “As always,” John smiled. He came here every morning. The coffee was good, and over time, he had become friendly with the young Nepalese owner. John watched as Thapa weighed out a portion of coffee beans and poured them into a small grinder on the rear counter. Thapa stood about five feet ten inches, tall by Nepalese standards and moved with the grace of a big cat. He turned toward the coffee machine and smiled at John, the corners of his eyes crinkling up.

  “How was your weekend?” he asked.

  “Not long enough as usual.”

  “I know what you mean. I only took Sunday off, and I'm feeling tired today.”

  “Nothing a few cups of coffee won’t fix, right?”

  Thapa laughed as he prepared the coffee.

  John had been coming to Thapa’s little coffee shop since he had started his job at the financial firm, and their daily greetings had gradually developed into a friendship. Sometimes, John would escape the office on the pretense of seeing a client and would come down and have a chat over coffee with Thapa who was always friendly with a ready smile. Thapa didn’t speak much about himself, but John had pieced together his story during their many conversations.

  Thapa was the son of a Gurkha, the ferocious Nepalese fighting force that had served the British Army for over two hundred years. His father had been stationed in Hong Kong for ten years, patrolling the border with China when Thapa was born. Like many other Gurkhas, Thapa’s father stayed on in Hong Kong after leaving the army and settled in the bustling district of Yau Ma Tei in Kowloon. Thapa went to a local school and became fluent in Cantonese while his father established his own security firm, providing employment for the retired Gurkhas and their offspring. Times had been tough, to begin with, his father struggling to compete with the large established firms, his mother having to work as a domestic helper. Money had always been tight, and his parents had never been around, working long hours to pay the rent and put food on the table.

  Left to his own devices, Thapa had fallen prey to the triad recruiters who hung around the playgrounds and housing estates, looking for disaffected youth and promising them status and fortune among their ranks. He got involved in petty crime, thefts, bullying, and minor extortion. Nothing major but he was headed for more serious things when one of his uncles took him under his wing and explained to him what would happen to him if he continued. He took the place of his absent father and taught him about the great and honorable history of the Gurkhas and how as the son of a Gurkha, it was his responsibility to uphold their reputation even though he wasn’t serving in the army.

  Something struck a chord, and from that moment, Thapa changed and knuckled down at school, devoting time to his studies, striving to make his father proud. He graduated from high school and not wanting to pursue higher education or become a security guard with his father, he went into business for himself. With the help of relatives, he scraped together enough money to start his coffee shop, and in a tribute to his heritage, the sign above the shop held a very special logo—two crossed Khukuris, the curved fighting blades always carried into battle by the Gurkhas.

  “Just how you like it.” Thapa handed over John’s black coffee in a takeaway cup. “Are you coming in later?”

  “Thanks, Thapa. I’ll see how it goes. Have a great day.” John took his coffee, nodded at the next guy in the queue and walked out the door, turning right, up the hill toward his office on Lyndhurst Terrace. The firm occupied the top floor of a building with multiple tenants. He rode the lift, then tapped in the security code on the keypad at the office entrance. The double glass doors opened directly into the reception area and a large counter, behind which sat two receptionists. He wished them good morning, and they both ignored him. To the left of the reception was a glass-walled conference room with expansive views of the office towers of the Central District, and behind the conference room, a short corridor led to the open plan space that housed John’s desk and those of his ten other colleagues.

  Most of the desks were already occupied, but no-one was working. Some were hunched over their desks, eating breakfast from polystyrene takeaway containers while others browsed the internet—not a single person acknowledged John as he walked in. At the rear of the open space was the manager’s office, the desk facing inward where he could watch over the staff despite the stunning view from the floor to ceiling glass windows behind the desk.

  John sat down, took a sip of his coffee and switched on his computer screen. He sighed and rubbed his face with his hands—eight hours of mind-numbing boredom stretched ahead of him. He again thought back to his time in India and his job where he had been in charge of a team numbering almost forty. A team of intelligent and eager young Indians, excited to build their careers and make a difference in the world. Now, he sat under the ever-watchful eye of a boss who did little himself while John replied to hundreds of meaningless emails and made phone calls to people, trying to sell them financial products they didn’t need. John shook his head and took another large swig of his coffee, willing the caffeine to kick in before his environment and thoughts of the day ahead pulled him deeper into a depressive funk.

  Putting off his actual work, he opened his browser and scanned the headlines on a couple of news sites before logging into his bank account to check how much money he had left until payday. His salary never seemed to last the whole month. He typed in the password and checked his card balance. The credit card was nearing its limit again, no surprises there. Switching windows he looked at the current account balance. What the…?

  That can’t be right! He blinked rapidly, looked away, then looked back again. No way! John glanced over his shoulder to make sure his colleagues weren’t looking, but he needn’t have bothered. They were all in their own private worlds, playing online games or trawling social media. He looked back at the screen, his heart jumping. There was something wrong. Where the balance should have read only a few hundred dollars, there was a much bigger number…

  One million dollars!

  5

  John minimized the screen and stood up, his heart pounding in his ears, and his palms were clammy. He walked out of the office toward the reception desk and grabbed the toilet key from the reception counter before heading down one flight of stairs to the shared men’s toilet. Unlocking the door, he walked inside, pulled the door shut behind him, and locked it.

  For the second time that day, he turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face. Leaning on the sink bench, he stared into the mirror as water dripped off his nose into the sink below. One million dollars! Where the hell did that come from? It wasn’t his, that much was obvious. Obviously, a banking error, but what was he supposed to do with it? Could he keep it? He certainly needed the money. One million Hong Kong dollars wasn’t a fortune—not quite one hundred and thirty thousand U.S dollars—but it could get him out of the rut he was in. He could clear his credit card debt, quit this dead-end job, start fresh, travel… But what if he spent the money and the bank asked for it back? Would he get thrown in prison? Shit.

  He straightened up and turned around. He wanted to walk around, to help him think, but there was no space in the toilet
. Taking a deep breath, he wiped his face with a paper towel before walking back into the office. He sat down in front of his screen, and after looking over his shoulder to ensure no one was watching, opened the browser window again. A warning message popped up, saying he had been inactive for too long, did he want to continue? He clicked on ‘continue,’ and the screen brightened up as his bank account filled the screen. It was still there—one million dollars. He scrolled down to the transaction history to establish where the money had come from—deposited the previous Saturday in twenty deposits of fifty thousand dollars, in different branches around Hong Kong. That’s weird. There was no clue who had deposited the money. Each transaction simply read ‘Cash Deposit.’ Who the fuck deposits fifty thousand in cash? And why so many deposits? Who has that amount of cash?

  John heard one of his colleagues moving around behind him, so he quickly logged out and stared at the blank screen, thoughts racing through his head like hamsters on speed. What should he do, what should he do? The money would change his life, but he couldn’t keep it. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t a big believer in Karma—he made his own—but he didn’t want to tempt fate. Making a decision, he looked at his watch. The banks were open. He picked up his cell phone from the desk, pushed back his chair, and walked out of the office.

  “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he told the nearest receptionist who didn’t bother to look up from the bowl of noodles she was slurping. John shook his head, pushed the door open, and walked into the lobby to catch the lift down to the street. Once on the street, he looked left and right, deciding where to go. He chose right and headed down toward Hong Kong’s infamous bar area, Lan Kwai Fong, deserted and decidedly seedy-looking at that time of the morning. In the street, an elderly street sweeper swept up broken glass and discarded beer cans with a bamboo-handled broom while an old lady, her spine twisted and bent at right angles, flattened cardboard boxes and stacked them on a handcart. John found a quiet space in the doorway of one of the shuttered bars and pulled out his phone, scrolling through his phone book until he found the number for the bank.