Bad Traffic (29 page)

Ding Ming hurtled down the track. An odd crackling sound ahead of him rose in volume, but he did not realise what it was until he rounded a curve and the cover of trees parted onto a confused and disturbing scene. Tongues of flame lapped from the windows of a house and churning smoke formed a black column against grey sky. He was too late – the murderous business was in hand.

Shading his eyes he peered harder. Through a shimmering heat haze he saw the green truck and Black Fort’s yellow car. There was Black Fort and, yes, there was Mister Kevin, that bulk was unmistakable. He was fiddling with some kind of stick – no, he was loading a shotgun. There were two other men there, and they had guns too. He felt a twinge of dread. He stepped back and a twig snapped.

A man pointed and yelled, in a harsh bark of English, ‘There he is, there.’

Another voice growled, ‘Get him.’

A gun flashed and boomed and leaves and twigs crunched as they were torn apart.

They had mistaken him for their enemy. Ding Ming turned, put his head down and sprinted heedlessly away, a shrill note of panic ringing in his head. He tripped, and when he put a hand down to right himself felt grass and earth. He put the hand in front of his face. It was shaking, and smeared with mud. He saw bark and leaves. He had run right off the track and into the wood. A man yelled ‘There,’ and another voice said, ‘Head him off.’

Ding Ming rushed on. It was so dark that he did not see the tree trunks until he was almost upon them, and he had to veer and lurch. Dew glistened on barbed wire. He planted a hand on a wooden post and vaulted into
darkness
. His heels dug into soil, thorns tugged his thigh, then he was sliding and rolling down a muddy bank. He came to rest in a stream of cold water, one leg curled painfully beneath him.

Above, a torch flashed and he heard his pursuers slow.

‘You hold it down. I’ll go over.’

The wire twanged as the men climbed the fence.

Ding Ming picked himself up and careered into the wood. Twigs whipped and flayed. His head banged a branch and the shock brought him up short. He realised he was making such an uproar crashing through the undergrowth that
pursuit
was simple. He had to hide.

Rotten wood split as he crawled into a hollow below a fallen trunk. He curled up and clasped his knees, his cheek against spongy moss. His mouth was very dry and he licked his lips, tasting earth. The parka covered him completely. He was glad it was green, and dirty, it made good
camouflage
. He remembered how the policeman had smeared his face with dirt as a disguise and did the same.

He could hear nothing over the din of his pounding blood. No, there, tramping feet approached. The torch’s tunnel of light grew brighter. If they found him his only chance would be to very quickly explain that it was not his fault, that he had done nothing and he was only a poor peasant and victim of circumstance. He feared that they would not believe him, or even care to listen. He realised that he should not have run – that made it look bad. He should have stood there on the track and shouted, ‘Mister Kevin, stop, I am so glad that I have found you, there is a
man come to kill you and your friends, and you must run away.’ And that might have sorted it out.

He curled up tighter and wished he could make
himself
small enough to vanish altogether. The swish of feet in undergrowth grew louder, then stopped. There were two men. He could see clods of earth on their shoes and burrs stuck to their trousers. The barrel of a gun swung into view.

‘Where did he go?’

An animal chattered.

‘This way.’

Their steps receded. Ding Ming realised he was holding his breath and exhaled. He crawled out, but this time fought the instinct to charge off. Slow is steady, he told himself, and stepped as quietly as he could. It helped to imagine himself an animal whose survival depended on stealth. He resolved that when the new day came he would think of a plan. But his only immediate idea was to get away from his pursuers and get through this awful night.

He came to a clearing. Birds twittered and pale streaks slashed the sky – it was soon be dawn. Black smoke rose in a column. He looked round a tree and his spirits fell as he realised that he must have travelled in a loop. He had come all the way back to Hope Farm. It was very frustrating. He was reminded of the time he had followed the ramblers and only ended up back where he started. It seemed his
destiny
to make great efforts and get nowhere. He tried to orient himself, looking for the track he had come down on. That would lead to the road, and then the village, and perhaps he would be safer there, where people were kind.

As he scrutinised the scene, a suspicion that it was
familiar
grew to a startling conviction – why, yes, that yard was where the lorry had parked, and that was the barn where he’d taken a piss – this was the very place he had arrived at, not
two days ago. The tree he had his hands on right now he had admired, in those happier times, as one of the bushiest he had ever seen.

He supposed he should have thought of it. In retrospect it was obvious – Black Fort and Kevin were friends or
business
partners. Of course there was only one ‘farm’ that they used. All it meant was that he knew for certain he was at least three hours’ van drive from the mud.

A female voice cried out. Someone else was in trouble and they were coming this way. He ran to another tree and peeked round it. A girl was lit by a raking beam of light. She was trying to run, not very successfully, as her ankles were tied together, and there was something pathetic about that mincing shuffle. Her T-shirt was ripped, and one of its red bows hung loose and flapped. He knew her in an instant, and it hit like an electric shock. It was his wife, Little Ye.

Little Ye was making a noise he had never heard her make before, a yowl like a cat. A man jogged after her. He too was familiar, the sinister Black Fort. And watching and holding the torch was Mister Kevin. Each man, like his pursuers in the wood, carried a long, stout gun.

Ding Ming’s fingers dug into bark. He kept on looking although he wanted more than anything not to see. He couldn’t believe it. She’d gone nowhere, she had stayed here all the time, it was the most appalling monkey trick of all.

He stretched a hand towards her, then put it in his mouth and bit down, and kept biting as he watched Black Fort catch up with Little Ye and grab her shoulder. She swung at him and Ding Ming saw that her wrists were tied together. Black Fort slapped the clumsy blow away and raised the shotgun, threatening to hit her with the butt. She fell over.

Ding Ming hopped from one foot to the other and took his bleeding hand out of his mouth and splayed his fingers over his face. His eyes felt huge between them. He watched Black Fort slap Little Ye and grab her by her matted hair.

‘Stop messing about,’ hissed Kevin, and the torchlight went up and down to signal his impatience.

‘
Bu, bu, bu.
’ she sobbed. She looked terribly small and delicate and Ding Ming wanted to choke. Black Fort dragged the rope that hung from her wrists until she scrambled to her feet. He pulled her by the rope and she shuffled after him. Kevin turned towards the barn, swinging the torch, and
the scene went dark. Ding Ming reeled. Lurid after-images lingered, of pale limbs and long shadows.

It was impossible not to follow. He was aware that a
simple
turn of the torch would reveal him, but was determined not to let his wife out of his sight. When the group headed up a rise towards the barn, he dropped to his stomach and crawled.

The fire raged in the house. Roof beams collapsed in a storm of sparks. Tiles fell and shattered with a sound like a string of firecrackers going off. Black dust swirled. It settled on Ding Ming’s coat and smudged his skin and made his eyes smart. But he was glad of the smoke and the uproar, it masked his presence.

They took his wife into the barn. He stole along the wall towards the entrance. With every step he knew he was just being more and more reckless, but he could not stop
himself
– a wilful demon seemed to be in command. What were they doing with her in there? It was tormenting. Bitterly he remembered his feelings of hope and trepidation when he was in there all those hours ago, back when he was young and stupid. He felt like crying. He had lived so long at a pitch of high emotion that his exhausted mind could barely function.

Metal clinked beneath his feet. Rusty bars were scattered at the base of the wall. He picked his way to a stack of tyres beside the barn entrance. He was alarmed to see a man lying just a metre or so away, a slim Chinese man with a neat ponytail. His head was twisted unnaturally to the side and his limbs were flung out carelessly. Ding Ming realised he was dead. He wanted to go and turn that head away. The eyes seemed to be looking right through him.

Black Fort and Kevin came out quickly. Ding Ming was so close he could see swirls of decorative engraving on the stock
of Kevin’s gun. He was trapped: he could not retreat for fear of making a noise. He ducked out of sight behind the tyres.

They loitered in the entrance, and Ding Ming could hear not just their voices but their heavy breath and footfalls.

A beam of torchlight shone into the pale face of the dead man. Kevin whined, ‘Oh Christ, look at that poor fucker. Can’t we just get out of here?’

Black Fort said, ‘As soon as it gets light, someone will see the smoke and call the cops. If they find any bodies, they’ll come after us. We have to clean up. I want you to call the driver and tell him to get a move on.’

‘We should tell him to stay the hell away.’

‘No. When he comes, we put the new arrivals and the girls in your truck. We unhitch the container and hitch up the one in the barn. Chuck all the other bodies in there and get the fuck out. When the cops turn up, all they find is an empty container and a smoking ruin. It’s just some
arsonist
been playing around. They’ll shrug and leave it. If we do this right, we can still get away.’

He remembered the last time he had eavesdropped on these two, the night before, while standing in a puddle in an open grave. That time he hadn’t wanted to hear. Now he craned with his senses trembling. The girls – they were
talking
about what to do with his wife.

Kevin said, ‘You can’t throw those girls in with new
arrivals
. They’ll talk about what’s been happening to them and we’ll have a riot on our hands.’

‘True. It’s hassle we don’t need. Okay – we’ll kill them.’

Ding Ming blinked. Had he just heard what he thought he heard?

Kevin said, ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Throw them in the container with all the other bodies.’

‘Listen to you.’

‘We can’t afford to mess about.’

‘We can’t just—’

‘You want to come out of this or not?’

‘Christ.’

‘You want all our hard work to go to shit? Fifty years inside? We got, what, twenty corpses to deal with – what’s another three?’

‘Listen to yourself.’

‘We clean this up together or I sort you out as well – understand?’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Christ. You want to go in and kill them? Just… stick a shotgun in there and shoot them?’

‘I’ll do it. You don’t even have to watch.’

Ding Ming paled. They planned to kill his wife. He couldn’t breathe, the knowledge was like a pebble in his throat.

‘I’ll get the others. Phone the driver and stay here in case he turns up. He’s going to see the fire and the bodies and freak out. Tell him it’s under control. If he tries to leave, wave your gun at him.’

‘Can’t you stay, as well?’

‘What is it? Don’t you want to be left alone?’

‘I just… Christ.’

‘I’ll be two minutes.’

‘What about the psycho? What if he’s here?’

‘Shoot him.’

Ding Ming heard Black Fort jog away. He peeked over the tyres. Kevin had his back to him. He was trying to make a call on his mobile but kept looking up and glancing
nervously
round and swivelling his gun.

Ding Ming knew what was required of him now, but felt inadequate to the task. He wished he was as strong and mad
as the policeman but he was just an ordinary person. He wanted to break into a sob and screwed his face up to force it back.

He picked up a metal bar. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do, and he knew that if he stopped to think about it would fail. He remembered the policeman’s advice and kept counting in his head – one two three, one two three – until it drowned all else out. But still his hands shook with nerves.

He ran forward and smacked Kevin on the head with the bar. The impact jarred his arm to the shoulder. As Kevin fell, Ding Ming hit him again. His features, he could feel, were contorted into an arrangement they had never held before.

He started towards the ruined body, needing to see what he had done, then turned because he couldn’t look, and he put the metal bar, now repellent to him, down on the ground. Something warm trickled down his chin and he tasted blood and realised that he had bitten his tongue.

Jian became aware that he was hurt. His head was
humming
, his vision swam. He forced his consciousness
outward
and realised he was lying on his stomach, in a tangle of plants. He hauled himself onto one elbow and grunted as pains stamped down on him. He took a breath and sharp jabs lanced his chest.

The pain wasn’t unbearable, he told himself. It was just a cracked rib – and he kept saying it in his head until, with an exhalation, that twinge subsided and duller aches
yammered
for attention. His hand and wrist were scraped raw, something was wrong with his ankle and the back of his head throbbed. He’d have a good bump there tomorrow, if he lived that long. The sight of blood spatter down his arm alarmed him, until he realised it was someone else’s.

A voice was murmuring – someone was here, very close. He fumbled the gun out and pointed it at a dark form. That was too much effort, so he brought the other hand up to support his wrist, but still the barrel wavered. Wei Wei whispered, ‘Dad, it’s me.’ He tried to say, ‘
Dan ran
… Of course,’ but it came out as a groan. Hands were laid on his shoulders. ‘Don’t try to get up.’

He grasped her with both hands. The contact stung where his palm was scoured, but still it was welcome. She was alive, she was gloriously here. She was just like his mental pictures but smaller and denser. Her face was pale, with
hollows
round her eyes, flaking lips and a bruise on her cheek. She had raw scrapes all along her arm. Her wounds caused him more pain than his own.

He did not want to take his eyes off her, as if to do so were to break the spell and she would be dead again. His sour dream of rage was over in an instant, and new emotions took hold. Foremost was the fear that she would go again, he could not stand to be robbed twice.

A sharp crack drew his gaze. A strip of guttering, warped with heat, peeled away from the roof of the house. It
twisted
free, fell and slithered down the slope. Grass sizzled and leaves shrivelled. It came to rest barely a footstep away.

Their location was perilous. He got to his feet, thrashing branches aside, and, with arms raised to shield his face from the heat, tested the weight on his ankle. It would slow him down but he could still walk – it was just a strain.

In the yard he saw a new arrival, a green and dusty lorry. Jian knew that menacing radiator grille, now dented. It had forced him off the road last night. More enemies had arrived.

He had to get her away from here. It was not far to the wood, then they could find the road which would lead to the car, then they could drive away. The further he planned, the more fretful he became. How quickly his mind had
normalised
. Like any intense pain, the rage could not now even be recalled. Mundane emotions had streamed into the gap – fear, nerves, vexation.

He took her hand. It was hot and damp with sweat. A few paces across open ground, then the sanctuary of the dark trees. Then the road, the car, safety.

She whispered, ‘Wait,’ and pointed at the barn. ‘They put a girl in there.’

So what – it was clearly not his problem. It was necessary to get her out, delay only endangered them both.

‘Dad, we have to help her.’

He felt mortal, tired, and old. He was so battered that there did not seem any part of his body that did not ache.
He wiped sweat off his brow and looked at the welcoming cool darkness.

With disappointment he realised that he could not fail himself again. Now he was trapped, there was the
inconvenience
of duty. He looked at the barn through churning smoke and flakes of soot.

‘Let’s see what we can do.’