Citizen One (2 page)

“Why?”

He laughing, amused that she should even ask. His answer, lips against her torn ear, equally faint.

“Because I can.”

His blade slicing down her flank to the side of her panties. The fine material slipping frayed. Pulled aside. His hot breath. Laughter, as with torn hands, she attempted to hide herself. Gently, her fingers coaxed away with the cut-throat’s gleaming edge. And then as he walked away, pushing another towards her.

“Your turn, Comrade Officer.”

A reply. Words that she did not hear. Words that she had no wish to hear. Her gaze falling to a gap in the far bowl of the stadium structure. The city, so near, so very far.

“I said, your turn, Comrade Officer. That is if you wish to be a member of our club.”

Pushing him again. Nearer. Through the smell of blood, metal and pepper, his reek of vinegar sweat. And at the very horizon of her hearing, their voices chanting, goading him.

Against the darkness of the night his arm in a scything sweep. Blade in a race through the cold air and across her soft throat. A shiver of excitement running through him. Standing back as he surveyed her. He, at that moment, a god, bleeding her life into the puddled mud.

Her eyes, blind to her murderer dropping his trousers, deaf to his comrades’ jeers. Oblivious to his callous pumps into her. Her blood baptising him; the clench of her vagina around him, as she convulsed in death, forcing him to come prematurely. His seed falling cold within her. Dead by the time he had completely ejaculated. His arch-backed act caught in icy still frames, by the man with the pockmarked face.

Withdrawing to applause. Buttoning himself as he grinned at the camera. Pats on his back as they dragged her through the mud to the very edge of one of the shored foundation holes. From the rear of the group, the man with the pock-marked face moving forward. His eyes meeting theirs. Only a nod, the act not even demanding words. A nod back, then booted feet kicking her from the arclight into darkness. Falling headlong into the hole, body tumbling, limbs flailing. Another nod from the man with the pockmarked face. A hand on a lever, a belch of diesel fumes with revs building and a deep metallic voice growing. The machine’s voice, by the second more potent. A vast iron flamingo, the veined machine dipping its piped neck forward, down. Revs drowning everything. Now a river, the fall of liquid concrete, rising over the chest, flowing thickly into the mouth and the nostrils. Congealing over upturned eyes. The dead girl, now a stone crucifix. The liquid concrete rising, until there was nothing to be seen.

The man with the pockmarked face smiling. Unzipping his flies, and pissing into the hole. By the time he had re-zipped himself, adjusted his tailored-uniform jacket, the concrete had completely filled the hole, running into shallow channelled rectangular foundations either side of it. The man with the pockmarked face nodding again, one last time. A hand reaching for the lever, plunging it back. Silence. Just the pulse of the distant highways.

Laughter, as they walked from the cloying interior of the half-formed national stadium. Laughter as they viewed images on the camera’s bright screen.

Behind them figures moving from darkness, back to work. Behind them, life and the living of it. Safe now… the plague, receded.

No words. Car doors slamming. The Red Flags’ engines fracturing the silence. Headlights fanning across draped banners.

OLYMPICS 2008, CHINA … THE WORLD WILL BE WATCHING

Cigarette smoke merging. Jokes, slaps on backs, and a silver flask of French brandy passed from hand to hand, and mouth to mouth. All but the man with the pockmarked face drinking. But he was watching, always watching.

A gold ring knocking on the dividing glass that separated the driver from his passengers, proletariat from princeling … from
tai zi
. A deferential nod from the chauffeur. A deferential foot gently applied to accelerator.

There would be hot showers. Clean clothes made from the most expensive materials. There would be drinks, imported spirits and wines, waiting across the city. Waiting in the chrome-drenched Zhapu Road. Also food made from the finest of ingredients, enough to satisfy the Six Flavours of Chinese cuisine. The rich,
fei
. The fragrant,
xiang
. The fermented,
chou
. The crisp,
song
. The fresh,
xiang
. The full-bodied,
nong
.

There would be opium, served in silver pipes. And whores… not
yeh-jis
bought for a brace of beers. Not diseased ‘
wild pheasants
’ … a fuck for a pack of China Brand, oral for a handful of loose change
fen
. But a choice of whores from a menu of the most exquisite faces, the most desirable bodies. Just a bleeper summons away. Dollars, green and American, by the thousands, buying insatiable exploration of their perfumed delights.

Already the sensing of the opium’s sweet, breezing dream, the whore’s rouged nipples and her lipsticked lips. Anticipation, so often more fulfilling than reality. Even with the aphrodisiac of murder in your nostrils and tasted in the fine cement powder at the back of your tongue.

On his wrist an alarm loudly bleeping from an oversized watch. A life lived in divisions of two hours. The man with the pockmarked face switching the alarm off and re-setting the timer. Sitting back into the antique leather of the Red Flag as they passed the silver flask once more, draining it dry. Lighting another cigarette, foreign and long. Basking in the smoke that he knew would be smoothing his face. He would watch them swill the concrete dust from their mouths, so dry, with a fine Merlot. The finest. What better mouthwash? And then whores’ mouths to theirs in a joining of business and pleasure.

‘Ankang’
– Peace and Health.

Do not be a
hua fengzi
, a ‘romantic maniac’. One who looks dishevelled or unkempt. One who has an adverse effect on social decorum.

Do not be a
zhengzhi fengzi
, a ‘political maniac’. Shouting revolutionary slogans. Writing reactionary banners and letters. Expressing opinions on important domestic and international affairs. Disrupting the normal work of the Party.

Do not be a
wu fengzi
, an ‘aggressive maniac’. Do not beat or curse people, smash up public property, pursue women or endanger people’s lives or property.

Do not be, do not do, any of these things, for Peace and Health await you.
Ankang
awaits you.

*

Ankang
. A hospital that punishes by custodial sentence and regime. No leaving after just a few months. Three years, five years, are considered to be short periods of incarceration. Not a hospital in which to lie in bed. Rather a hospital where you will work seven hours every day.

Ankang
. A hospital that punishes by use of medical appliances and procedures. Drugs, medicines that make you dribble constantly. That make your eyes roll upwards helplessly in their sockets. That make you walk slowly, and stumble often. That make you constantly want to sleep.

Ankang
. A hospital that punishes through the use of injections. Muscular injections, and the much more painful intravenous injections. Injections that swell your tongue so that it bulges out of your mouth. Unable to talk. Swallow. Injections that paralyse your facial muscles, like a waxwork mask. Eyes fixed, staring. Unable to turn your head … having to move your whole body to look at something.

Ankang
. A hospital that punishes through acupuncture using an electric current. The ‘electric ant’. Three levels of current; three levels of pain; three favourite acupuncture points. The
taiyang
, on the temple. The
hegu
, on the palm of the hand between the thumb and the index finger. But the most popular, the most painful, the heart point on the sole of the foot. Screaming out, while other inmates are forced around your bed to watch the electric ant administered. Threatened that they will be next if a rule is violated, a boundary infringed.

*

Do not look dishevelled, unkempt, or have an adverse effect on the social order.

Do not hand out leaflets, or stick up posters.

Do not have an opposing political viewpoint.

Do not challenge the Party, the government, in any form.

Do not be mentally ill or have learning difficulties.

Do not disrupt the public order of society, even if your illness means that you cannot help it.

The orders are strict. On encountering any of these types of behaviour the public security organs are to take you into custody for treatment.

Ankang
awaits.

Dream different dreams while in the same bed
…

The soft sanded resort of Beidaihe is divided into three areas.

The east beach is reserved for chosen workers and members of the military. Those who are trusted. Those who are the ‘ears’. Who listen to the whispers and then report them. Those ‘who pat the horse’s arse’. Those
tong zhi
, those comrades, who attempt to ‘put the shit back up the horse’s arse’.

The middle beach is used by high level Party officials. The highest of
cadre
and their hangers-on. The elite. Those who create the wind that all others must bend to. The middle beach, the best beach, combed, preened, the sand, finer.

The west beach is for foreigners. ‘Big noses’.
Yang-gui-zi
, ‘foreign devils’.
Wai-guo-ren
, ‘external country persons’.

Confucius, in the opening passage of the Analects asked, ‘Is it not a pleasure to have friends come from afar?’

Yes, it is. As long as they keep to the west beach.

*

The
zhau-dai-suo
, ‘guesthouse’, overlooked the middle beach of Beidaihe, a private path giving it access to the fine honey-coloured sand. Rare, even amongst such privilege. Flanking its metal gate, a beach hut and a boat house of mellow coloured brick.

Several dachas occupy this area, none visible from any road. High walls and tall leggy swaying trees, in full leaf, standing sentry. Invisible to the eye, the
zhau-dai-suo
. Invisible also in every other way. Recorded on no documents, plotted on no maps, no name attached to them, no records of ownership, no house number, or address. Sitting on roads that had no name, in areas that, officially, did not exist.

*

She stood next to the balcony that led from the master bedrooms. A view through the fine lilac voile curtains and the swaying trees to the sea. Every day seeing the sea, noting its change. Not unlike living with somebody. But it had been a long time since she had actually chosen to live with somebody. Lovers, husbands, men … stepping stones across a wide, restless river. Nothing more.

Steeper now, the sun’s arc to the ocean. Boats, riding the horizon, their running lights blinking into life on their imagined road into the Yellow Sea, and onward to the mouth of the Changjiang, the Long River, the mighty Yangtze.

A breeze was picking up. Curtains in a loose tumble and mimicking the waves’ gentle ride to the shore. Closing the balcony door. The evocative fragrance that she always associated with Beidaihe, coconut oil and camphor wood fires, cut adrift and replaced with man-made scents that came in delicate, expensive bottles. Chanel, Guerlain, Yves Saint Laurent. As she passed, stroking the head of the child that lay on the satin-sheeted bed. The telephone ringing, but not disturbing the child. Nothing disturbs this child. Checking her watch. The phone continuing to ring. To the minute, on time. How she loved men who were so predictable.

“Ni nar.”

Listening, just listening, with the occasional verbal prompt. Many could talk, few could listen. She was one of the few. The conversation meandering for many minutes before he found the right path.

“Madam, thank you for your help with my little predicament. It is much appreciated. Very much appreciated.”

“It is a pleasure to help one who is in need.”

A delay in his next words. Words that were difficult to say, as a hook caught in a carp’s lip.

“Your assistance, Madam. I cannot but wonder about its timing.”

“Its timing, Comrade Chief Officer Zoul?”

“Yes, Madam. We have an association with each other. One that pre-dates your assistance to me. Pre-dates it by some time. A common acquaintance. I had not realised, Madam. Those who recommended me to you did not say.”

“Nor should they have, Comrade.”

“Of course, Madam, of course. You were the …”

For a second he halted, trying to find the right title. Mistress. Concubine. Lover. She smiled. A man of some sensitivity, it was a good sign. Such a man would be malleable, easily ‘persuaded’.

“You were the partner of the late Minister of Security. A fine man, a great comrade. We in the PSB still mourn that life no longer possesses him.”

“Thank you, Comrade Chief Officer Zoul. I also still mourn my beloved Minister’s passing to the ancestors.”

Her fingers falling to the sleeping child’s blushed cheek.

“But our love did bring forth a child. Such a gift. Ten thousand ounces of gold.”

“Indeed, Madam, indeed.”

“But when you talk about a shared acquaintance, you do not talk of the late Minister of Security, do you?”

“Perceptive, Madam. You are very perceptive.”

“You talk of my husband, yes?”

Silence. Almost able to smell him, his Italian cologne and his un-fettled fear. She knowing instinctively when to use the right words, as if dipping into a tool box. Each sentence a spanner, a hammer, a chisel. Each word a pick, a soft brush used to remove fine debris.

“Please, Comrade Chief Officer Zoul, speak your mind freely. This is a secure line and I am a woman who understands the sensitivities that the high
cadre
must take into account in all of their dealings.”

She laughing lightly. So natural and so well practised.

“One advantage of my now dead lover having been the Minister of Security?”

He would be blushing, Zoul. The word lover. The word dead. A hardened chief of the PSB, with such easily bruised sensibilities.