Citizen One (15 page)

“I am sorry, Comrade Manager. I did not notice that your hand was in the waste disposal unit when I turned it on.”

“And I’m a witness, Boss. You were only trying to help them with a few fucking chores around the kitchen, and the idiot starts pushing cabbage leaves down there with his fingers.”

Blubbering, the manager.

“Terrible the accidents that happen in the fucking kitchen But nothing that a few stitches and bandages won’t sort out. Not like the girl, eh Boss?”

Words, each edged in anger’s fine serrated teeth.

“Now, tell me of Lan Li, Comrade Manager.”

“Fuck off.”

A nod to Yaobang.

“Okay, okay. A fucking whore we used. Very good. Our fucking best…”

Pulling the paper from his pocket, the Senior Investigator. Placing it on the edge of the sink. Stars of spittle and blood. Diluted, but blooming through the cheap paper. Black biroed names. Three names, three dead girls.

“These names, do you recognise any of them?”

“Whores. Why are you bothered about fucking whores?”

“Have some respect. Women, they hold up half the fucking sky, eh Boss? That’s what Mao said.”

“Fuck Mao. I don’t fucking know them … the truth … the fucking truth. Over there. There. The menu …”

On a shelf a dozen leather bound A4 books.

“See, see for your fucking self.”

The Senior Investigator taking one of the menus, brushing half-prepared vegetables out of the way, laying it on top of one of the work surfaces. Quickly moving through the pages. The menu, glossy and detailed. The menu of prostitutes. Of girls sold on and sold on again.
Mei ming
… girls stolen, abducted. Girls from the Republic’s legion of orphanages.
Mei ming
… girls with ‘no names’. The menu … their specialities, their special ‘tricks’. The most beautiful women that he had ever seen, bright eyes and faces, and shimmering bodies, but as fat sows at market to be sold to the butcher, soft stroke across neck, awaiting the bleed. At the bottom of each page a name. At the bottom of each photograph a number that they could be paged with and the cost of an evening’s hire. Lan Li, the menu’s most expensive whore by far.

Closing the menu and moving back to the sink. The odours rising from the waste disposal’s mouth, the manager’s mouth … one and the same.

“We have a description of the man who assaulted Lan Li. A
tai zi
.”

“Everyone, everyone who comes here is a
tai zi
… everyone’s a princeling. Who else could afford a fucking bottle of whisky for $1,000?”

Piao holding up a photograph. A man, his mouth, as a gash, sutures un-picked. Laughing.

“This
tai zi
he has a scarred face. A bad photograph, but this is the one who we wish to interview.”

Pulling the manager’s face up.

“This
tai zi
he is also a serial murderer. That gives us permission to get any information any way that we can. To those who life no longer possesses, we owe it. Who is this comrade? Who is this princeling?”

“I don’t, I don’t fucking know him.”

Yaobang, taking the manager’s bleeding hand in his.

“You know him, Comrade Manager. You know him as well as you know your prostitutes.”

The Big Man crushing the torn fingers. Waiting for the scream to die.

“PLA. He’s fucking PLA. High ranking. His father, a big-shot PLA. Very big. That’s all I know. That’s all I needed to fucking know. This
tai zi’s
men enforcing protection. Money, always after money.”

Piao now reading truth as well as fear in the manager’s eyes.

“Used to be easy, so easy. We had our business, PLA theirs. Now he wants it all, this princeling. All. I know no more than this.”

The Big Man, swathing the Comrade Manager’s hand in a tea towel. Piao unbolting the door. An instant smell of stolen foreign cigarettes and pisses onto the
long’s
crumbling brick wall. Chefs, assistants, hostesses, shuffling in. The Senior Investigator handing the first a clean tea towel.

“Your manager, he really should be more careful with kitchen appliances.”

Walking into the night, instantly chilled. with the Big Man lumbering behind. Two dumplings taken from a tray beside a pouting hostess.

“I don’t suppose you’d offer discounts to PSB employees?”

“Fuck off,” she said.

Never had he heard a swear word said with such meaning.

“Your loss.”

Walking a little faster after the Senior Investigator, the second dumpling already rolling around the inside of his mouth.

All the way to the Shanghai Sedan, the manager’s shouted abuse and obscenities spilling like shit from an open sewer. But Piao thinking of only one thing, as if it were a shield to hold all else at bay; a five pointed star carved into a young woman’s stomach. The same five pointed crimson star that sits at the heart of the PLA’s uniform badge.

*

The rain that had stopped had started again, the air alive with electricity. By the time that they had reached the sanctuary of the Sedan they were drenched. Rain everywhere, down their necks, cuffs, soaking through the cheap material of their jackets and trousers to their skin. Washing the sickness aside, cleansing the pestilence. And still in his eyes, the girl, Lan Li, once so perfect.

Piao’s palms thudding onto the steering wheel. Violently, the Sedan shaking. The Big Man lighting a China Brand, tossing the pack onto Piao’s lap. Tobacco, not as honey-sweet as the foreign cigarettes that they had smelt, but free of the pimp’s gutter touch.

“The girl was right, Boss. A fucking PLA
tai zi
…”

Shaking his head.

“A whore knows her clients better than a farmer knows his swine. Now we know why the
fen-chu
mothballed its vice department. They fucking own half of the whores.”

Windscreen wipers stuttering into reluctant action.

“A fucking worry, and a PLA princeling who will know every
cadre
in every high place.”

Sucking in the oxygen of smoke, the Big Man’s gaze distant, beyond cracked buildings and broken
longs
.

“They could put you back in
Ankang
again, if like before you go up against high ranking PLA with their fucking Politburo friends. They protect their own, even if they are murderers.”

Smiling, Piao. Reminded of a joke heard in
Ankang
. A good joke. A very old joke.

Two comrade prisoners are against a wall facing a firing squad. They are offered blindfolds. One refuses, cursing loudly. The other comrade prisoner whispers, “Ssh! Be a good comrade, don’t make trouble.”

But Piao’s smile only lasting a few seconds, the memory of
Ankang
more powerful than any joke.

“Perhaps do it differently this time, eh Boss? Play their games and not be so fucking blunt?”

Wiping the sweat from his brow with his cuff, the Senior Investigator.
Ankang’s
taste fading with the China Brand’s jaded drags. They were on Jinlinglu before he could find the words to answer the Big Man’s question, and then only with wise words borrowed from another.

“ ‘When walking through a melon patch, do not adjust your sandals.’ ”

‘To be unhappy over a relationship is worthless.

You should plunge yourself into the struggle for
production, and gradually your wounds will be healed.’

The editor’s advice page of the China Youth News

Within the vast forest of the Chinese language, there is no term for the love between a man and a woman. Romantic love, within the People’s Republic, has always been viewed as not respectable.

Within China there is no accepted polite expression for the term ‘making love’.

A relationship, marriage, seen only as a careful arrangement between two families. Ensuring prosperity and providing children. A business too important to be left to young people themselves. Love coming second to the business of the day. And sex? Sex is something that occurs. Like eating, sleeping, or bowel movements. Sex occurs, like relationships occur. But both, by order, by expectation, taking second place to the Party. To the needs of the People’s Republic. The result, a rigid Puritanism with Beijing shaping the sex lives of millions of Chinese comrades. Romance, marriage, procreation, the number of children that a comrade can have, divorce, intercourse, all subject to Party dictates.

An established code of behaviour, simple, but effective.

Shirts on men should always be buttoned to the top. Even more the case for women. Even one button undone is considered lewd, a sign that the wearer must be a prostitute.

In the winter women are always expected to wear jackets in public. Even within the home a jacket should be worn if opening the front door.

In high school girls are to sit separately from boys.

Women should avoid the use of make-up.

To kiss a woman is to propose marriage.

Jokes with sexual innuendo are never to be told in public.

By government edict marriage should not occur until the age of twenty-eight.

To get married one must seek permission from the
danwei
. If there is a “political blemish” on your records, permission may be denied.

“Though death befalls all men alike, it
may be weightier than Mount Tai or
lighter than a feather.”

The ancient Chinese writer Szuma Chien

Imitation Italian cologne, Southern Comfort and a fine reek of sweat; the flat smelling of all of these, in a complex blend. As if a brace of
yeh-jis
had use the place for their crumpled
yuan
gathering.

Rentang. The living space, an office, a warehouse. The Wizard sitting in front of a large computer screen with his crab fingers in leisurely choreography across the keyboard and a glass within reach.

His question addressed to the Big Man, but his eyes still fixed on the screen.

“Where have you been? Out all day yesterday. I didn’t go to bed until around 3 a.m. this morning and you still weren’t home.”

“Fuck me, it’s like having a wife, but with none of the sex.”

Piao pulling on his shirt and jacket while checking the mail. Always checking mail, but brown envelopes, only ever brown envelopes. Letters from the
danwei
, the street committee, a letter from the
fen-chu
; the only letter that he didn’t crumple up and throw toward the fire grate. Three days from now, an appointment with Zoul, and the psychiatrist, Tu. There was a real possibility of suspension on medical grounds. Life soon to be lived solely by
guan-xi
… black market and backdoor deals. Investigations soon to be conducted through
xiao-dao xiao-xi
… ‘little road news’, the grapevine. Its necessary indigestion already filling him with its acidic burn. Already mourning the daily dislocation of all that he knew.

Folding the letter, once, twice. Pushing it into an already crowded back pocket of his trousers.

“So, Comrade Wizard, stun me. What have you got?”

“You don’t get miracles in Shanghai, especially in this area. So don’t expect any.”

White characters crawled across the screen of the monitor and across his spectacle lenses. Rentang reaching for his drink, his thin lips glistening with ‘The Grand Old Drink of the South’. Swilling the candied-fire around his teeth while his fingers blurred over the keyboard.

“As I said, no miracles. They come with a bit more time and a lot more Southern Comfort.”

Click
. A secure file. Its opening page a crest of gold and red. Stars as burning indented coals. Harsh entrenched characters.

SHANGHAI KAN SHOU JINGBEI SI LING BU

“Fuck. The Guard Army of Shanghai Garrison Headquarters.”

“That’s right, Fat Man, the People’s Liberation Army. I got your boss’s note.”

A glance at the Senior Investigator.

“I hope that you have the appetite for this, Piao. It gets even better. I’ve hacked into the central PLA computer database. Used a code-breaking programme and then put in a backdoor. Spent a whole morning getting in here. All morning and half a bottle of Southern Comfort. That’s what we’re doing now. Through the backdoor and straight up their unprotected arse.”

Personnel files, names, ranks, pages upon pages of characters, like black meat hooks holding up to view the career of every PLA Officer assigned to the Shanghai garrison.

“I’ve been in here all day. Like a fairground.
Ta ma de
. A whole new career for me here. I even had time to hack into the PSB database. Your own
fen-chu
and your own file, Sun Piao. Sad, Senior Investigator, very sad, your file, it almost made me want to cry. So much promise. So many fuck-ups.”

Piao’s hand, across his; pages scrolling as the pressure increased.

“You forget how tightly I have you by the balls, Comrade Rentang. Perhaps we should send some of the pictures to Comrade Bai of the Supreme People’s Procurate, or to
tong zhi
, Lu Shiying, Head of the Institute for Legal Sociological and Juvenile Delinquency?”

“I get the point, Senior Investigator.”

“No. No, I do not think that you do. But you will if you piss on my head and tell me that it is raining.”

Piao, removing his hand and pouring himself a drink.

“Now show me what you have?”

A weak smile from the Wizard.

“So, Senior Investigator Piao, where do you want to go today?”

“The PLA with the harelip. Any luck?”

“Fuckall, until I hacked into the PLA medical files. Looking for patterns. I’m good at looking for patterns. It’s called lateral thinking.”

Click
. A new domain. A new file. A request for a password. Fingers over keyboard in a practised choreography. Fingers to keys, summoning up a password cracker … ‘PQWAK’.

“Definitely not fucking tricky enough.”

Virtual doors opening. Virtual pages flowing. Names. List after list.

“Medical records, confidential medical records.”

“Shit, Boss, we could be shot for this.”

The bottle in the Senior Investigator’s hand, its candle neck fitting so neatly between thumb and palm. So precisely. Too precicely. Pouring deeply into Yaobang’s glass.