Crimson China

by Betsy Tobin

  “Lili. Are you in there?”

  She freezes at the sound of Jin’s voice.

  “Just a minute.”

  She stands up, straightens her clothes and splashes water on her face before glancing in the mirror. She will know, thinks Lili. How could she not? Already she looks different: her face bloated, her eyes haggard, her expression fearful. She opens the door, preparing for the worst. But in an instant she sees that Jin is not concerned with her appearance.

  “He’s free,” says Jin in urgent low tones.

  “Wen? How do you know?”

  “He rang. Just now.”

  “They let him go?” Jin shakes her head.

  “He escaped.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Back with her.” Jin’s tone turns slightly brittle at this last.

  “What will he do?”

  Jin shrugs.

  “Pay them. He has no choice.”

  Lili rushes home after the next class. It is early evening and she lets herself in as quietly as possible, hoping not to draw attention to her presence. As she eases the front door shut, she can hear May chattering to Adrian down the hall in the kitchen, and the clatter of saucepans as he prepares supper. She tiptoes up the stairs to her room and crosses quickly to the dresser, where she keeps her money stashed in a sock in the bottom drawer. She takes out the sock and sits down on the bed to count her savings, making neat piles of twenty-pound notes. In all she has saved more than eight hundred pounds since she arrived, though laid out on the bed it does not look like much. Suddenly she regrets the few purchases she has made, glancing ruefully at her coat. She should have saved every penny.

  A noise startles her. May stands in the doorway, staring at the money on the bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Just… ” Lili breaks off and looks down at the money.

  May takes a few steps into the room, her curiosity roused.

  “Is that all yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to buy with it?”

  “It is for a friend,” says Lili carefully.

  “Oh. All of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  Lili hesitates. Just then Adrian appears in the doorway behind May.

  “Hello. I didn’t know you were home,” he remarks

  “Lili’s giving her money to a friend,” says May.

  Adrian nods, a little perplexed. “Go wash you hands for dinner.”

  May skips out of the room. They both listen to the sound of her retreating feet on the stairs. Adrian looks at her, and Lili has the sudden sense of being trapped in a beam of light.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not in any… trouble are you?”

  Lili thinks of Wen and the snakeheads, and the pea-sized foetus in her womb.

  “No. There is no trouble.”

  “Sorry. It’s none of my business really.” Adrian shrugs, embarrassed.

  Lili glances at her watch. “I’m sorry. I have to go now.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.”

  He watches as she stuffs the money into her handbag, then pulls on her coat.

  “You’re coming back, aren’t you? I mean here. To us?”

  She stops and turns to him. He is staring at her with his foreigner’s eyes, his voice full of apprehension, as if he is seeing her for the first time. She falters. If she ever wanted to be free of him – of this house, and of the burden of his child, then now is the time. For an instant, she fears that it will all come pouring out of her: the nausea and the shame and the fear that she is harbouring.

  “Yes,” she says, uncertain whether it is true.

  November 2004

  “You were leaving,” says Angie. It is not a question, but still she waits for his reply. They are in bed, Angie curled on her side facing him, Wen on his back staring up at the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. He turns to face her, sees something flash across her face. She lifts her chin a little defiantly.

  “Why?”

  Wen pauses. He does not know the English word for coward. “I was afraid,” he says finally. But even as he speaks, he knows that this is not the truth. The truth has managed to elude him somehow. He cannot articulate, even in his own language, the emptiness he feels inside.

  “Of what? The snakeheads?”

  Wen shakes his head. He cannot lie any longer. But neither can he find the words to explain. It is not just them, he thinks. After all, he has been through the worst with them and survived. But the hollowness remains; the sense that he is lost within himself.

  Angie raises herself up on one elbow. “What happened that night,” she says slowly. “On the bay. It wasn’t your fault.”

  Wen looks up at her, his chest frozen. She knows, even without him saying. How is it that she understands? She does not speak his language, and has never travelled to his country. Yet still she finds her way into his mind.

  “Survival’s not a crime,” she says. “Even if you want it to be.”

  “I should be dead.”

  “Maybe. But you’re not. You have to live within your life, Wen. You have to try.”

  He nods. She is right. His life is here. With her. And with the others, the ones who died.

  “I must pay Little Dog,” he says then.

  “I don’t have the money. But I know where we can get it.”

  •

  Later, when she is speaking to Ray on the phone, Wen hears her raise her voice slightly. “This isn’t a joke, Ray. You know me better than that.”

  Wen hears a muffled outburst from Ray, but cannot make out the words.

  “You owe me.” Angie enunciates each word separately. Perhaps he is mistaken, but her tone sounds slightly threatening. She listens for a moment.

  “It’s half past three. If you go now, there’s plenty of time. And Ray,” she adds, “bring a set of keys. He’s still in handcuffs.”

  After she hangs up, she turns to him and he raises an eyebrow.

  “He’ll get the money. Don’t worry.”

  She comes and sits down by him on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Ray got into trouble a few years back. That’s why he quit the police. He nearly got sent down.” Angie looks over at him.

  “To prison,” she explains slowly. “Ray nearly went to prison. Except for me,” she adds. “I helped him. That’s how I know he’ll pay.”

  Ray turns up much later, long after dark, clutching an old leather satchel. He sits down at the kitchen table with a sigh, and takes out a packet of cigarettes. This time he lights up without asking, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs before exhaling. He tosses the pack of matches onto the table and leans back, eyeing them both.

  “So. We pay these geezers off – and then what? Who’s to say they won’t come back for more?” Ray looks at Angie pointedly.

  “They not want more,” Wen says quickly.

  “How do you know?” Ray points at him with the cigarette.

  Wen hesitates. How can he explain, with his few words of English, that this is a simple business deal gone awry, and that he is as much to blame as anyone?

  “They want only money,” he says. “This money. No more.”

  Ray snorts and shakes his head. He raises an eyebrow at Angie.

  “Everyone wants more,” he says. “It’s the law of nature.”

  “Listen to him, Ray,” says Angie, her voice slightly menacing.

  Ray takes another drag, never once taking his eyes from Angie.

  “After this, we’re clear? Understood?”

  “Clear as ice,” she replies.

  •

  Later, when Ray has gone, Wen telephones his own mobile number. After three rings, Little Dog answers.

  “Wei?”

  “It’s me,” says Wen.

  “I’ve been waiting for your call. You’re not as stupid as I thought.”

  “I have the money.”<
br />
  “I thought you would.”

  “If I bring you the money, then that’s the end of it. Agreed?”

  There is a long pause on the line.

  “You bring me the money, and our business is complete,” says Little Dog slowly.

  “I never want to see you again.”

  “Why don’t we make it easy for you? Why don’t we come get it?” says Little Dog.

  Now it is Wen’s turn to be silent, for he does not wish to reveal his whereabouts. Before he can think of a suitable location, Little Dog speaks again, his voice slightly incredulous.

  “You’re back in Morecambe Bay, aren’t you? You just can’t get enough of that place.”

  “I’ll meet you outside the train station,” says Wen tersely. “Tonight. At ten o’clock. I’ll wait in the car park.”

  “Don’t be late,” says Little Dog.

  November 2004

  Lili manages to catch the last train out of Euston Station with a connection through to Morecambe. It is two and a half hours to Lancaster, and as she sits in the crowded carriage staring out at the darkness, she tries not to think of the baby rooted inside her. She is twenty-eight years old – old enough to pretend that she was almost past the age of child-bearing. Old enough to believe that soon it would no longer be a problem for her: the thinly veiled suggestions and raised eyebrows of those who knew her. For children had not been part of her plan, any more than men had. And she is certain that if she were still living in China, her plan would be intact. How had coming to this country altered it so completely?

  She dozes off, the tiredness of early pregnancy overwhelming her, and when she wakes it is because the carriage has come to a halt. Amid the murmurs of the other passengers, she hears an announcement that the train has been delayed due to a signal failure. An hour later, when the train finally pulls into Lancaster Station, she realises with dismay that she has missed her connection to Morecambe. It is nearly half past ten. She stands uncertainly on the empty platform. A conductor walks past and she stops him.

  “Please, is there another train to Morecambe?”

  “Not tonight, miss, next train’s at 5:07 in the morning.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s a taxi rank just outside, though. It’s only seven or eight miles. Shouldn’t cost you more than twenty quid.”

  “Thank you,” she murmurs, turning away. Twenty pounds less to give Wen, she thinks with dismay. But she has no alternative.

  When the taxi pulls up outside, Angie’s cottage sits hunched in darkness. She pays the driver and watches as he disappears round the corner before approaching the front door. She did not ring to warn them she was coming, afraid that Wen would try to put her off. She desperately needs to see him: to hear his voice and look into his eyes and know that he is real. But after she presses the front bell, the long silence draws her in. It had not occurred to her that they would not be here.

  She feels a fool. She pulls out her mobile and punches in the landline number Angie gave her. Inside the house, she hears the muffled sound of the phone ringing. She listens to it for a full minute before she shuts it off. Angie had not given her a mobile number, and she had not thought to ask. Perhaps they have just gone out for food?

  She sits down on the front step to wait. It is colder here than in London, and she pulls the black woollen coat as tightly as she can around her, huddling her arms about her knees. She cannot stay here all night: she knows that much. But she will wait as long as she can bear to, and hope that he returns. She dozes off again briefly, her face buried in the folds of her coat, and when she wakes she sees that it is just past midnight. She rises stiffly to her feet and, glancing one last time at Angie’s house, heads in the direction of town. She walks for half an hour before she reaches a high street lined with darkened shops, restaurants and hotels closed up for the night. She had vaguely hoped there might be a café open, but sees at once that the street is ominously silent. Instead, she follows the signs for the train station. Perhaps there will be some sort of waiting room.

  It does not take long to reach the station. She sees from a distance that it too is dark, though a police car is parked just outside, its silent lights flashing eerily. A line of yellow tape has been strung across an empty section of the car park, and a uniformed policeman stands to one side, making notes on a small pad of paper. He does not notice her approach, so engrossed is he in his task. It is only when she tries the heavy locked door of the station that he glances up at her. He is in his early fifties, with silvered hair cut short, and a long, thin face. His expression is weary, as if he has spent too much time in empty car parks in the dead of night.

  “The station’s closed miss. It won’t be open until dawn.”

  “Oh.” Lili turns to him uncertainly.

  He squints at her in the darkness.

  “Excuse me, you’re not a relative are you?” He takes a step forward.

  “A relative?”

  “Have you come about the incident?” He motions with one hand towards the ticker tape.

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry,” he explains. “An incident occurred here earlier this evening. We’re still gathering evidence. This is a crime scene. You may wish to come back in the morning when the station opens.” He nods to her and looks back down at his pad.

  “Yes, of course,” Lili murmurs. But she has nowhere to go. She starts to turn away and hesitates. After a moment the policeman looks up at her again.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I have been walking a long time,” she says rigidly. The cold has enveloped her now. She wonders whether the baby feels its icy grip. The policeman frowns.

  “You look frozen. Why don’t you go sit in my car for a few minutes and warm up. I’m nearly finished here. I can give you a lift. You won’t find a taxi at this hour.” He waves with the pad towards the waiting police car.

  “Thank you,” says Lili.

  She walks over to the patrol car and climbs into the passenger seat, shutting the door. The car is much warmer than outside, and at once she closes her eyes, leaning her head back. From time to time a police radio gives a muffled sound on the dashboard. A few minutes later, the policeman climbs in next to her. She watches as he starts the engine and backs the car up.

  “What happened here?” She motions towards the taped-off area.

  “An assault.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “A man was stabbed.”

  “Oh. Did he die?”

  “He was badly injured. They took him to hospital.”

  “Why was he stabbed?”

  The policeman shakes his head. “We don’t know yet. He wasn’t a local.” He glances over at her. “Actually, he was Chinese,” he says. “That’s why I asked if you were a relative.”

  “A Chinese man?” she asks thinly.

  “Yes,” he says, pulling onto the main road.

  “Where did they take him?” Her voice has dropped to barely more than a whisper.

  “The victim? He’s at the Royal Lancaster.”

  “Please. Could you take me there? To that place?”

  At once the policeman slows the car and looks over at her uncertainly.

  “You want to go to the hospital?”

  She nods. “Please. I have money. If it is long way I can pay you,” she offers.

  The policeman takes a deep breath and lets it out, before turning the car around and heading in the opposite direction.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he replies with a shake of his head.

  November 2004

  Wen and Angie arrive ten minutes early at the station. Angie pulls in and parks the car, shutting off the engine, before turning to him.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She peers around. “I don’t like the look of this.”

  “Is okay. They want money. Not me.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she murmurs.

  They sit for a minute, the car�
��s clock ticking loudly. The area around the station is eerily silent, deserted at this time of night. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, a small blue hatchback pulls in, parking twenty feet away from them. Angie strains to see inside the car.

  “It’s them, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Wen can see that she is frightened, but he himself feels oddly calm.

  She turns to him with alarm. “There are three of them! You didn’t tell me there’d be three of them!”

  “Stay here,” he says.

  He picks up the satchel at his feet and gets out of the car, walking round behind it until he is just beside the hatchback. Little Dog climbs out of the driver’s side and walks round to face him. For an instant, Little Dog’s eyes drift over to Angie, then back to Wen.

  “Sampling the local fare?” he says with a raised eyebrow.

  “I have the money,” says Wen, ignoring his comment. He holds the bag out to Little Dog, who opens it briefly and glances inside. “It’s all there.”

  “It better be.” Little Dog steps backwards and knocks on the window of the hatchback. A moment later, the window slides down. He tosses the bag into the car. “Count it,” he says tersely, before turning back to Wen.

  “So that’s the end of it,” says Wen.

  Little Dog does not answer. Instead, he takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and puts one in his mouth. He offers the pack to Wen, who refuses, then lights the cigarette, taking a deep drag.

  “What’s your hurry?”

  “I want to live in peace.”

  “In peace?” Little Dog snorts. “With her?” He makes a show of bending down so he can peer at Angie. Then he straightens. “She’s a bit old for you, isn’t she?”

  Wen feels himself stiffen. “My debt is paid,” he says.

  “You think so?” Little Dog takes a step forward.

  “You’ve got your money. Now leave me alone.” Wen turns away from him.

  “Hey, dead man.”

  Wen turns back to face Little Dog. He watches Little Dog drop his cigarette on the ground and crush it under his shoe, before reaching inside his jacket pocket. Little Dog steps forward, closing the distance between them, just as Wen sees the flash of metal in his hand. Wen freezes, his eyes locked onto the blade. He feels his mouth go dry, feels the rush of his heart, but he does not run, nor does he try to protect himself. A part of him has been waiting for this moment: as if the last nine months have been pushing him steadily towards this one encounter. Behind him, he hears the car door open. Angie calls to him tentatively.