Bad Traffic (4 page)

He was tall and lean with delicate, almost girlish features. Hooded eyes that didn’t seem to blink as much as they should, sharp cheekbones, pale complexion, artfully
tousled
hair. He could have stepped out of a magazine. But there was a dark birthmark, like a dry sauce stain, below his lower lip. Maybe he chewed the match to take attention away from it.

‘Let me see.’

He glanced at the vanity book. No flicker of recognition crossed his face.

‘Don’t know her. Would like to. What a piece.’

‘How come you speak Mandarin? You’re from Hong Kong, aren’t you?’

‘All Chinese should speak the language of the
motherland
.’ He tapped the book. ‘What’s the story?’

So now he was the one answering questions, the hoodlum knew his stuff. Jian let his voice rise a little and added a touch of tremulous warble, trying to sound dumb and harmless.

‘There’s a boy would very much like to find her. They were engaged back home. All we know is, she’s a waitress in a
Chinese
restaurant over here. I’ve visited so many now they’ve all started to look the same. Certainly the food always tastes the same – terrible. Why is that, do you think?’

‘White people scoff anything. There’s no point giving those pigs the good stuff, they wouldn’t recognise it. Are you staying around for long?’

‘A couple more days. There are plenty more places to check. Depends how the money holds up.’

‘What’s your name?’

Jian reached into his inside pocket. He had collected the namecards of his companions on the flight and he took one out now. He presented it politely, with both hands, which gave him the chance to glance at the name.

‘A refinery sub-manager,’ said the hoodlum, drily. ‘I would never have guessed.’

This was no idle conversation. So much scrutiny was going on beneath the casual phrases, it was almost like
flirting
. He remembered seeing the old man on the phone and suspected the youth had been summoned to probe him.

‘And you are?’

‘In Mandarin you would say Black Fort.’

Hei lei
– presumably it sounded better in Cantonese. It was a hoodlum nickname. At least the lad showed some imagination, usually they just called themselves Dragon.

The manager came over. He was still all smiles but the strain was starting to tell, his cheek twitched. He kept
talking
and gesturing, and it was obvious he was apologetically saying that he was shutting up. Jian pretended not to get the message. It was always good to give the impression of stupidity – people underestimated you.

The hoodlum said, ‘He’s telling you he’s closed.’

Now, seeing them together, the nervous old man standing and the youth cold and self-possessed in his chair, it was obvious which of the two was in charge.

Black Fort dropped half of a Great Wall card on the table. Jian put his hand on it. The youth put a hand over his. The fingers were long and neat, the nails manicured and glossy as bullets. The palm was hot and soft, but along the edge, below the little finger, he could feel a pad of coarser skin.
Those came from years of practising open hand strikes – it was the sign of a martial artist.

They locked gazes. There was an unsettling yellowish tint to the man’s irises. Jian knew Black Fort was lying, knew also that the man knew he was being lied to. A match
promenaded
across his mouth and he continued not blinking.

‘Sometimes it’s best to leave things to sort themselves out.’

Jian slid his hand out. ‘You’re a Taoist.’

‘I’m a realist.’ The lad pointed the match. ‘You know what I think? I think she doesn’t want to be found.’

Jian finished his drink.

‘Thank you for the benefit of your opinion.’

As he paid, he felt a moment of disquiet at the slimness of his wad. He had taken nine thousand yuan with him, and changed it all up when he arrived, in the expectation that that would pay for all his expenses, including maybe a couple of bribes, then a celebratory meal and presents. He’d gone through most of it already.

The owner escorted him out. Darkness had fallen but there were a lot of lights on – even the adverts on a bus stop were illuminated. Lighting a cigarette, Jian checked out the street in the reflection of the shoe-shop window, and clocked a dark figure lurking in a doorway over the road and a second loitering behind a car. He walked quickly away, and after ten or so paces turned round abruptly. He scratched his head and looked about, pretending to be drunk and lost. He hurried back the way he had come. Both figures had moved. He was being followed.

With all the cars parked at the side of the road and the big shop windows, the street had a wealth of reflective
surfaces
, and Jian was able to keep an eye on both his
followers
. On the other side of the road a chunky guy walked with slow deliberation, matching Jian’s pace, hands thrust deep into a long leather coat. He was pretty good – at least he looked natural. Further back, and on this side of the road, a slimmer, nervier man skipped along the gutter and peeked round parked cars. He was an amateur.

Jian was soon convinced that there was just the two of them. Two men were not enough for a tail. It took at least four, spread out in front and behind, with good
communications
. He was confident he could lose them. He could take a couple of sharp turns, then double back, dive into a bar or restaurant and find a back exit, or just hop into a taxi.

He passed an alleyway where a youth was bent over being sick. Through foggy windows he could see a raucous crowd. Music pulsed. It was an enormous bar. He would lose his pursuers in there, no trouble at all. There might be a cloakroom where he could leave the case. But losing them would achieve nothing. What he needed to do was turn the tables.

Perhaps he would hire a private karaoke booth and a girl to sing with, and then, while his enemies were watching the booth, find a back way to slip out. He could monitor the one outside, and when they realised he had given them the slip maybe he could follow them.

He felt energized. Maybe he had spent too long behind a desk. This was like being an eager rookie again – going on missions, out-thinking bad guys. A man on mean streets
living
by his wits at least knew he was alive.

It was, he reprimanded himself, an inappropriate response, an undisciplined thought produced by fatigue and adrenalin. This was not a mission, his daughter was in danger, and his anxiety renewed itself.

He stepped into the road and stopped to let a car pass. Its engine roared as it sped up and swerved towards him. It was low-slung and yellow and in the tinted windscreen he saw the distorted reflection of his own startled form and the orbs of streetlights. The passenger door was swinging open. He threw himself back. The bonnet swept by and caught the suitcase and it was wrenched from his grip as the bumper cracked. The open door smashed him in the midriff.

He collapsed and his head smacked the edge of the
pavement
. He was aware of the squeal of tyres and running
footsteps
, but it all seemed to come from far away. He could see only lights sparkling in red mist.

His jacket was hauled over his head, trapping his arms and smothering his face. A weight pressed down on his neck. Hands groped inside his pockets. Fury at this
violation
gave him strength. He twisted and flung a bent arm out. His elbow connected with something and the impact sent shivers to his shoulder.

Pain exploded in his stomach and he gaped and his fingers spread and curled. He tensed for another blow.

Someone started shouting. No new strike arrived. He heard retreating footsteps and an engine growled then receded.

He unclenched and groped for the pavement. The jacket fell away from his head as he rolled out of the gutter. A gurgling
sound was coming from his throat. Gravel prickled his cheek. His chest felt huge and sore. Red mist retreated and a white shape resolved itself into a pale and sweaty man with a busy mouth and a chin speckled with vomit.

Jian dragged himself up. The bass thudding from the bar seemed to rhyme with the pain in his head. His suitcase had gone, and most of the contents of his pockets. He’d been done over and robbed. He hadn’t even caught a glimpse of his attackers. But it could have been worse. They had left in a hurry, after the puking guy started shouting. He had got an elbow strike in and that had been good.

The white man was making noises of indignation and sympathy and had a hand on his shoulder. The smell of sick was strong and Jian just wanted him to go away. It would be nice to collapse here and let his gaze settle on the sparkling streetlights and observe his breathing return to normal. It would be even better to be several thousand kilometres away in a comfy, familiar bed.

But he had a missing daughter. He got down on all fours and examined the pavement and the gutter. He found half a match and held it to the light. When he pressed the
broken
end against the back of his hand, he found it soggy. That hoodlum Black Fort. So the man had not believed his story. He’d wanted to find out who he was, warn him off and put him out of action.

He staggered to his feet. He found that if he put one hand on his stomach, raised the other to trail along the wall and kept his eyes focused on the middle distance, he could make acceptable forward progress.

He set off back the way he had come. A couple of drunk lads weaved past. It seemed everyone was pissed, maybe today was some local festival. He supposed he fitted right in: he couldn’t walk straight, either.

He almost missed the oversized lanterns of the Floating Lotus, the lights inside were off. Now those hanging black globes put him in mind of bombs. The shutters of the
restaurant
were down, but inside lights were on and through slits in the metal he could see dark figures moving around.

He crossed the road and found a building with a recessed porch, equidistant between two lampposts, and sat with his back against the door. He was in shadow from the road but had a clear view of the restaurant. It wasn’t great cover, but it would have to do.

Definitely, he told himself, it could have been much worse. Nothing was broken inside and they had not found his passport and airline ticket, secure in the belt around his waist. He grinned as he imagined them right now
rooting
through underwear and toiletries. There was hardly any money in the wallet and anyway the debit card was broken. The suitcase had only been slowing him down. They would find his namecard, but so what? It wouldn’t mean much to them. He stopped grinning because it seemed to be making his head hurt more.

He lit a cigarette and shaded its glowing end with his free hand. It was reassuring to smoke, it was something other than aches to concentrate on. But when he inhaled, a pain in his side intensified. He discovered the trick was to breathe in very gently. He’d had worse. He rubbed his elbow and hoped it had connected with a nose.

This was tough territory, no place for a naïve young girl. He did not blame his daughter for her lies or her failures, he rebuked only himself. He shouldn’t have let her go. No, he had to be honest with himself – he shouldn’t have encouraged her to go. How convenient it had been to send her away. He had told himself it was for her own good – but, all along, was it not his own that he had been thinking
about? No more difficulties, no more embarrassing
incidents
. The pain of his battering was easier to bear than these uneasy pricklings.

He settled into the wait. So what he had no money? He’d steal a car to sleep in and beg for food – whatever it took, it didn’t matter. No obstacle would be allowed to stand in the way. He was going to find his damn daughter.

Ding Ming lay in a foetal position, inside a sealed box lined with carbon paper, in the back of a container truck. His backside and haunches were sore, his legs numb. The air was so stale that every breath scorched his lungs, his clothes so soaked with sweat they clung to his skin. Sweat trickled along his eyelids and down his nose.

He needed a piss. He could relieve himself into his empty water bottle but he’d lost the screw-on cap, so having relieved himself he’d have to concentrate for the rest of the journey on keeping the bottle upright, he certainly didn’t want to be sloshed with his own urine.

It was very annoying that he’d dropped the cap. He risked raising himself onto his forearm so that he could grope for it.

Nothing. He slipped off one plimsoll and fumbled with a bare foot until he felt the plastic rim. With the cap secured by curled toes he brought his foot up and reached down with his fingers. Just before hand met foot, the cap slipped out. He heard it roll, and now he was aggravated at the cap for its disobedience and at the impossibility of bending even this most trivial of objects to his will.

Trying again, his foot kicked the side of the box and he heard paper tear. He’d gone and slashed the carbon paper with his big toenail. If only he’d cut it before the journey. If he’d known it was going to be an issue, he certainly would have done.

He didn’t know if the rip was significant or not, because he didn’t know what the carbon paper was for. He supposed
it was to protect against malevolent spirits or to fool the
prying
machines of customs officials. That little tear might have terrible consequences, his big toe could have had
jeopardised
the whole venture. Mental pictures blossomed of a red alarm blaring, men in black uniforms running, evil spirits slipping like smoke through ripped carbon paper.

And he was still desperate for a piss, and the cap still eluded him, and it was baking hot, and breathing the meagre air was like sucking hot sand, and his mind was stretched so thin he couldn’t think straight.

The truck stopped moving and the roar of the engine died. An echo of the noise ran round Ding Ming’s head, and an echo of the buffetting he’d been receiving from the
suspension
seemed to be still vibrating his bones.

He heard a suppressed cough and someone shushed. Voices came from outside, and Ding Ming strained to
listen
. Fearing a customs inspection or a police raid, his stomach tightened.

He’d been caught by the police once before, when leaving, at night, by horse and cart, that country with the wooden houses and the trees with silver bark. The police had kicked him and his companions and turned them all the way back to the gloomy town by the lake.

He felt that his breathing was too loud, surely it was audible to the men in black uniforms, they were craned forward
listening
with frowns on their faces.

Two booming slaps came, and Ding Ming stiffened.
Someone
had banged the side of the truck.

Metal scraped metal, and a voice cried, ‘Chinky dinkies! Let’s be having you!’