Milieu Dawn

by Malcolm Franks

A week had all but passed. Matt’s spirits began to rise as the outline of the city appeared in silhouette against the rising sun. Seven days of walking by night and sleeping by day, had taken their toll of his physical condition.

  He stunk to the high heavens. Once he’d left the trail by the river there was no chance to wash or clean except for the one night it had rained, more like a monsoon than a passing rain storm. He’d drunk from the sky in huge gulps and rubbed his weary limbs feverishly, trying to peel off the dirt. Matt found he didn’t mind walking through the deep puddles. If anything, the water had the effect of cooling his blistered feet and soothing the aching muscles of his legs, bringing some much needed relief.

  At one point he had even strolled completely naked in the dark determined, as he was, to clean every conceivable part of his anatomy. He could only wonder what a passing Chinaman, or woman come to think of it, would have made of the sight of a nude Western traveller hiking through their country in the middle of the night. He didn’t see anyone as it happened, and this was probably a good thing.

  And he was hungry. Matt couldn’t remember the last time he felt this level of hunger. Had the mamushi not crossed his path one dawn, he doubted he would have had the energy to keep going on. The encounter felt surreal. Sat in front of him and staring blankly into his eyes the reptile as much as gave him permission; like it was okay, he understood the human need. The mamushi didn’t try to slither into the undergrowth, or make any kind of attempt to get away. Neither did it recoil in fear as the blade struck. Almost as if God had decided to make this meal available to Matt.

  He spent a good five minutes looking at the corpse. As he peeled the skin away to gorge on the raw flesh, guilt seeped into his consciousness. This wasn’t the way to appreciate the reptile’s voluntary sacrifice. Something made him pause and look up into the sky.

  “Thank you,” he had said to no-one in particular.

  And then he finished the remaining meat. Afterwards, as he lay hidden from view, Matt reflected on the two faces of his species. Some people killed the mamushi, and other wildlife, because they had to survive. An increasing number however, feasted upon the fruits of the planet for no reason other than gluttony or personal vanity. Such people were to be reviled, he considered.

  Yet, for all that, he knew he was no better being guilty of much the same things in his normal existence. And now he was close to the city all he could think about was of a hotly prepared meal of his choosing, laid on a plate in an attractive a way as possible.

  He entered the outskirts. Xiamen is one of the ten largest ports in China. He had visited the city before, soon after he had set up his first business in the UK. The goods he imported were manufactured in the sweatshops of the mainland before shipping from this very peninsula. That’s why he came to this place. In Matt’s situation, any kind of familiarity would be useful.

  He had taken a circuitous route, in a bid to shake off any potential pursuers. Heading first inland, he then backtracked towards the coast. His plan either involved passage on one of the many cruise liners docked at the International Passenger Terminal, or hitch a ride on a container ship. Should those plans fail, there was always the riskier option of catching a ferry to the Taiwanese held island of Jinmen. Though only eighteen nautical miles away, it was a two hour voyage. It would also require him to get through a frontier checkpoint.

  On reaching the city outskirts, Matt’s mind drifted once more towards his likely betrayer. The issue had bothered him throughout the week. Someone had provided the authorities with his general description.

  The only person that knew of his intent to come here was Gratia. And the only people he’d had contact with since his arrival was Hang Chi and the ship’s captain. Matt had been betrayed once before by a woman called Grace. Surely the same thing couldn’t have happened again. But there were no other obvious candidates. Everything pointed to Gratia. She made the travel arrangements and put him in touch with Hang Chi. She took an uncanny interest in the diary from the outset, relieving him of it’s custody on one occasion without consent. And she had constantly monitored his movements throughout Europe. He wondered if her attempts to help him had a more sinister edge.

  For a woman with all the responsibilities of a multinational corporation to contend with she also had bundle loads of free time, turning up often when he least expected it. Matt had never been totally sold on the tenuous explanation the mobile and laptop were her office, enough to keep her in constant touch with the business. How could they be?

  Matt reflected on her relationship with both Martha and Gerhardt. There was something strange about the interaction between the three of them. The two women were anything but close. Yet Gerhardt adored Gratia, evidenced by the way the old man had taken Matt to task about the Bull Run episode. Rarely did Gerhardt exhibit such warmth to anyone outside of his inner circle. Gratia had to have some redeeming features, for the elder statesman had shown himself to Matt before as being a good judge of character. She couldn’t be all bad.

  His concentration was broken by the arrival of building structures to his left. He had made it to the edge of the city, home to around two and half million Chinese. Matt could see the shapes of distant skyscrapers at the coastline. Whilst this mixture of the old and the new were not unique to Xiamen, it nevertheless represented an incontrovertible statement as to how rapidly China had embraced modern capitalism.

  He sought out a clothing outlet, surprised by their ready availability in the city. Then again, most of the clothing was produced in China these days. From there, he located a shop selling deodorants and scented goods. Amongst the growing mass of local faces he started to relax a little. It was always harder to pick out a face, any face, amongst a throbbing crowd.

  Matt waited until afternoon before catching a bus, making sure he kept his head down. No-one seemed to pay him much attention. This large city had morphed into all others on the planet, people travelling around lost in their own little worlds. They looked, but never saw or noticed what was right in front of their eyes.

  The massive Haicang suspension bridge, which linked the mainland to the city island, loomed into view. The silver-blue structure, almost six thousand metres in length, resembled a shiny jade belt crossing an ocean of blue. Finally arriving at the shell-roofed International Passenger Terminal he got off close to the point where the cruise liners docked, and made for the schedule office to check on departure times. Tourists from all over the world visited Xiamen so there would be peoples from Europe, Australasia and the Americas, making him even less conspicuous. He could only hope to remain undetected long enough.

  He sipped at his third coffee, sat at a table on the end of the balcony. He’d spent the passing hours observing the docked cruise liners, looking for an opening. Security was tight. From the loading of passenger baggage to the boarding of fresh provisions, an armed guard was present at almost every turn. He inwardly bemoaned modern day living. Just about every movement in life was regulated by authority these days. And no-one minded anymore. The mass populace meekly accepted this to be the norm.

  Matt concluded this avenue of escape much too risky. The chances of getting caught were too great. He would attempt plan B. The ferry to Jinmen and its frontier checkpoint would be the final option; though trying to subversively buy passage on a container ship at the docks was not going to be without difficulty.

  The remnants of the drink disappeared; time to move. He spotted the first of the police cars come to a halt at one side of the terminal. Looking sideways, he witnessed a replica scene. Doors opened and uniformed men spilled out. Each end was communicating by hand held radios. They had arrived for one reason only, to prevent people from leaving the terminal.

  A number of plain clothes men appeared. Each one armed, some with machine guns, others with semi-automatic pistols. Matt could see wires connected to the equipment in their ears, confirming they were secret service. There were sure to be many more surrounding, and moving in to, the building from the main street entran
ces.

  Matt chose to make for the restaurant kitchen. He hurried down the steps to the ground floor. Weaving his way through the vast array of tables overcrowded with diners, he sought out the entrance. His line of sight fixed onto a small waiter moving along the far wall, carrying a full tray of used dishes. The man disappeared through a swing door not immediately evident to the naked eye.

  He hurried towards the opening. Accidentally he nudged a diner, spilling her cold drink. The old Chinese woman rose immediately to apologise.

  “Okay, okay,” he said tersely.

  She was insistent. He pushed her firmly back into the seat by pressing his hands onto her shoulders. The woman said something in her native tongue which sounded offensive. He didn’t have time to argue.

  Matt surged energetically through the swing door. Cutlery and plates clattered on to the white tiled floor and liquid food spilled out messily. Angry Chinese voices chimed as Matt stepped over the spillage and darted through the long channels between the ovens. He grabbed at long metal kitchen utensils along the way. This commotion was the last thing he needed.

  Spotting the exit, he burst past an irate chef who tried to bar his path. Matt clattered into the door the same time as a small armed figure pushed from the other side. Instinctively Matt crashed the metal ladle against the skull of his opponent. The man banged his head against the wall as he fell. A weapon fell from his grasp. A second shape appeared. Matt swung his arm up in an arc, bringing the ladle into contact with the man’s jaw with a sickening thud. Thrown backwards, the man’s fingers involuntarily squeezed the trigger. A burst of gunfire echoed through the air. Matt stilled the figure’s resistance with a heel to the jaw.

  Screams and panic shrilled from the restaurant area as he snatched the second weapon and rummaged for ammunition clips. Rushing into the darkening sky, his eyes darted from side to side. He had two options. Both left him vulnerable to early detection. A figure on an insipid looking motor cycle loomed into view across the street. He stepped forward. He saw the cycle turn and close. The rider pulled out a gun.

  Matt was cornered, helpless. He saw the weapon spit out its missile of death.

  He held his breath and braced for the impact.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Old Times