by Liz Williams
The apartment was minute: a box, a coffin. Inside the box, the heat was unbearable. Robin threw open the windows and a suffocating smell of garbage entered. The only choice was to stifle or gag. Robin compromised, shutting the little window in the bedroom and turning on the kitchen fan, which after a minute started to limp around its central spoke. A single step took her back into the main room. She took off her overall tunic and bundled it into a ball so that the Paugeng logo was no longer visible, then stuffed it under the pillow of her futon. The last thing she wanted to think about was work, and if she glimpsed it out of the corner of her eye, the logo looked like a bloodstain. If she looked crumpled next morning, then so be it. She turned on the television, hoping for the news, but no sooner had she sat down than there was a bang at the door. Robin bounced up and flung it open.
“Deveth—” she began, but there was only the empty air. Robin looked down. A small, resentful face was turned upward in reproach.
“I got your noodles,” it said sourly. “And your pak choi.”
“Good!” Robin said. She had forgotten that she had hired next-door’s child to bring her a takeout. She forced money, evidently not as much as the child was expecting, into its grimy hand.
“Is that all?” it said.
“That’s all you get,” Robin told it, and shut the door.
She carried the oily paper packet back to the television, eating absently with one hand. On the viewer, Malaysian screen idol Inditraya Samay held up a rosy pomegranate and moved her winsome head to one side. Revolting, Robin thought. What had happened to the news? She reached for the remote and Samay’s pretty pout was ruthlessly intercepted. A long shot of bodies on stretchers was more promising: the news on Channel 8. Robin settled down grimly to watch. Tremors in Sengeng had collapsed a road, compressing its four parallel lanes into a grisly sandwich. The cause—either a grumbling fault line or excessive open-cast mining in Sengeng Paray—depended on political affiliation. No mention was made of the Feng Shui Practitioners’ Guild who had, it seemed, failed to predict the disaster. One of the senior dowsers was featured, loudly protesting their blamelessness.
Finishing her noodles, Robin took the greasy packet out to the kitchen. It was a mess. Normally, an old lady named Mrs Pa came in to do the cleaning, but poor Mrs Pa had been sick over the last few days, and the general chaos natural to Robin’s apartment had mounted. A tower of takeout packets spilled over the sink and a stack of dirty plates sat precariously on the little work surface. Robin could barely see the floor of the main room for the clothes that were scattered over it. She piled them in a heap on the floor of the cupboard, then furiously attacked the kitchen, piling the rubbish into a bag and sealing it shut with a snap. She stacked the plates in the sink and hauled the garbage bag out through the small rectangle of the kitchen hatch onto the fire escape, which rose up from the side alley like an ironwork plant from its composting bed.
It was still hot, a humid, reeking heat. The neighboring buildings were squat shadows against the taller buildings of Shaopeng, and the sky was a deep, clear crimson, unusual for the polluted port. As Robin stepped out onto the fire escape, the evening heat wrapped around her like polythene: a moist embrace of carbon dioxide, drains and the oily reek of the river. Another, more organic, odor insinuated itself into the air. Looking down from the top of the fire escape, Robin saw that the black garbage bags had accumulated at the bottom until they burst, spilling a mélange of rotten vegetables around the iron feet of the staircase. Through this bath of odors wound a thread of incense from the apartment below, a spicy breath out of the squalor.
A rattling, scuffling sound arrested Robin’s attention halfway down the fire escape. She stopped and peered into the dim alleyway. The sound was purposeful, determined, and came from the bottom of the fire escape. She leaned over the railing, and saw that the black back of the uppermost garbage bag was heaving. From her position at the fourth floor, and directly above, it resembled a seal; it rolled and wallowed in the filth that littered the alleyway. The bag spat tins, and a sheaf of old papers. Two floors down, a door was flung open and the voice of the occupant roared, “What’s all that fucking racket? Get out of there! Bloody dogs!”
The animal backed out of its larder and bolted down the alley. Robin caught a glimpse of an ungainly gait and a fat, spotted spine; it did indeed look like a dog of some sort, but much larger. She descended the fire escape and picked her way warily through the litter. The animal was nowhere to be seen. Robin dumped her bag and pushed the rest of the mess around with her foot, until it lay in a heap. Let the collectors sort it out. By morning, half of it would be gone, sneaked away to sell to the recyclers. There was a pungent, animal smell around the alley, unfamiliar, but redolent of earth and meat. Uneasily, Robin climbed back up the rickety escape and shut the kitchen hatch. She spent the evening in front of the television, pondering her problem of Mhara’s horrible prophecy until her head pounded.
Deveth did not call.
4
Until this week, Zhu Irzh had been residing in a somewhat seedy boarding-house in Lower Murray Street, but Chen’s trip to Hawaii had brought an unexpected offer.
“You can look after the houseboat for me, if you like,” Chen had said, glancing amiably upward at the demon standing by his desk. “We’ll be gone for three weeks; I’d like someone to water the plants and look after the badger.”
“You’re not taking the badger with you?”
“No, it might cause problems taking him on the plane even in his inanimate form and, anyway, he says he’s happy to stay at home. I don’t suppose he’ll be much trouble. He’ll probably be in teakettle mode most of the time. So. What shall I do, drop off the keys on our way to the airport?”
Thus, in the space of a morning, Zhu Irzh had acquired a new home and a familiar. He was becoming almost domesticated, he thought. He had always wanted to live on a boat, that traditional last resort of the poor. It was a long way from that pagoda fortress of his home in Hell, the balconies and verandahs of the Irzh clan, but Zhu Irzh didn’t miss the luxury all that much. At least he didn’t have to put up with his mother, and that was worth a bit of poverty.
The boat was moored some distance from the waterfront which, a short distance later, led round to Ghenret harbor. Chen had moved the boat closer to shore before a recent typhoon, and it was now reached via a few short hops over a series of pontoons. It looked out over the polluted waters of the Shendei, which, despite their filth, was why Zhu Irzh liked it. He supposed that Chen felt the same way. He could sit on the windowsill in the evening and watch the freighters plough across the harbor, until the swift night fell out of the sky and they became only moving lights.
It was a long way down the wharf. Zhu Irzh passed one of his neighbors on the way; an elderly lady who seemed faintly familiar, though all these people looked alike to him. She did not seem to see him, which was probably just as well. It would have been easier in ways if he had been equally invisible to his human colleagues, but the police station was covered with revealing spells, just in case something nasty decided to slip in and wreak havoc, and so Zhu Irzh stood out like a sore thumb once inside the walls of the precinct. The spells made him sneeze, to add insult to injury. Zhu Irzh tended to unnerve those folk who could actually see him, though the people who lived around the harbor seemed a fair old mix themselves. Sometimes fights broke out on the wharf; mostly, it was quiet. The whole community, with the exception of Zhu Irzh and a few other reclusive souls, decamped to the bars down the road during the evenings and lived out their dramas in more congenial surroundings.
Zhu Irzh unlocked the door and shut it behind him. The room was stuffy, so he opened the windows and let in a faint breath of air from the sea. At one end of the cubicle was a tiny shower, which generally worked. He stripped and stood, resigned, under the trickle of water. At least it was cold. Stepping from under the shower, he rummaged for fresh clothes, glancing at himself in the reflected mirror door of the closet as he did so. The reflec
tion smiled back at him, turning and posing. Zhu Irzh frowned. He didn’t feel much like the glittering image in the mirror. Any longer, and he might—terrible thought—start losing his looks. The human world was taking it out of him, depleting his energies. He needed a diversion. He needed a girlfriend.
5
The heat grew as the night wore on. Robin slept badly, tossing the damp sheet off the futon and onto the floor, and toward dawn she got up and opened the kitchen hatch. She stood for a moment on the parapet of the fire escape, looking first up at the pearly sky and then down into the shadows of the alleyway. The animal had come back; Robin could see it scuffling among the garbage. It was even larger than she remembered. As she watched, the creature raised its blunt, dark muzzle and laughed at her as she stood half-naked on the fire escape. Its laughter was earthy, unlike the chilly mewing of the seabirds scavenging over the port. Bemused and scared, Robin stepped back into the kitchen and brewed green tea to clear her head. Her dreams had been filled with images of the city, burning.
The world is going to end.
Now, the thought seemed uncomfortably close to madness. She was imagining things, Robin thought. But surely she couldn’t have imagined the whole thing? Mhara had definitely made the prophecy. She couldn’t have dreamed it.
Behind her, something gave a hoarse, rattling laugh. She spun round. The brindled beast was sitting on the kitchen floor. Robin yelled. Unhurriedly it rose to its feet and shook itself. Loose hair flew around the kitchen. It was, she realized, nothing like a dog. It had tusks. There were only a few feet between the creature and Robin, and the gap was lessened when the beast stepped forward. She heard a small sound break the silence: her own voice raised in squeaky panic. The animal stopped and glanced at her in mild curiosity. Then, ignoring her, it snuffled around the kitchen bin, and Robin was overwhelmingly relieved that she had tied up the full bag of garbage and taken it out earlier. Finding nothing, the animal trotted through the doorway; squeezing past Robin, who backed up against the wall. She felt its heavy, greasy coat brush against her shins and the contact made her shudder. She felt, nauseatingly, as though she’d been molested.
The animal conducted a thorough investigation of the apartment, peering beneath the desk and the sofa and looking into the ashtrays. It paid no attention to the frozen Robin. Eventually, its path returned it to the back door, and now, for the first time, it turned and looked her in the face. Its eyes were neither animal nor human; they held her gaze for a long moment and then the beast raised its head again and laughed. It laughed like a fool, a child, a woman and then it laughed like death. It bunched its squat hindquarters together and sprang through the kitchen hatch. Robin heard its clumsy descent as it bolted down the fire escape. She slammed the hatch closed and sank down on the kitchen floor. She wrapped her arms around her body and clamped her betraying teeth tight and quiet. The kitchen reeked of the uninvited guest, a pungent odor with a rank undertone of meat.
It was some time before Robin could move and when she did, she sat wakeful, staring through the slats of the window by the futon at the small visible patch of sky. Robin’s idea of stars was of a faded, pale dust strewn above the western sea, and none were visible now, so close to sunrise. Her imagination ran riot in the dimness of the kitchen. She was sure that she could hear the thing, rooting about again, until the shadowy glow from the street told her that this was only the recycling collector’s cart out in the back alley. It was now well past dawn. Robin got up and walked stiffly about the apartment, back and forth. Her legs felt heavy and leaden and her head was furry with lack of sleep; when the videolink sounded, she sat and stared at it for a moment before springing to answer.
“Yes?”
A thin, ascetic face appeared on the little screen. “Citizen Yuan?” it said with faint distaste.
“That’s me.”
“Giris Sardai. Deveth’s father.”
“Oh.” Robin felt hollow inside, as though her stay of execution was over, but the voice was cool and polite.
“I’m looking for my daughter,” Giris Sardai said. “I understand she’s a friend of yours.” A brief expression of bemusement crossed his features, as though he couldn’t understand why this should be.
“She is, yes,” said Robin cautiously. “But I haven’t seen her for a week. I’m afraid I don’t know where she is.”
Giris Sardai was silent. The black eyes bored into Robin’s own. At last, Deveth’s father said, “My wife and I would like you to visit us. Discuss the matter further”—as if this were simply a business proposition and not a question of a missing daughter. His tone made it apparent that this was not open to choice.
“I—that is, I’ve got to go to work.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.” Sardai was patient, as if reasoning with a child.
“Well, when?” Robin asked, feeling feeble and hating herself for it.
“This afternoon would be convenient. I’ll talk to your employer. Paugeng, isn’t it? Very well. I’ll send a car.”
And before Robin had a chance to speak, the system closed. Robin, wondering, dressed and left to catch the downtown tram.
She got into Paugeng early that morning, the unreliable tram running like clockwork this time. It seemed much later, the result of rising at dawn. She found Mhara still sleeping. One arm sprawled above his head; the gentle face seemed vulnerable and, somehow, younger. Robin did not want to wake him. Instead, she went to sit at the edge of the cot. His fingers were bound up, as usual. Robin wondered: Why doesn’t he try to free them? The dangerous clawed hands were limp in sleep.
“What the hell is going on?” Robin whispered, consulting her sleeping oracle. “Can you tell me?”
The blue eyes opened suddenly. The face was one she did not know: animal and alive. Then the experiment was yawning. There was no reproach in his face for waking him up.
“Did you say something?” he asked politely.
“No,” Robin whispered.
“Then I must have been dreaming,” the experiment said, and smiled. They ran through the tests and checks in silence and then Robin tidied the lab. She wanted to establish some degree of order, somewhere.
Jhai paid her a visit halfway through the morning.
“Could I have a quick word, Robin? Thanks.” Her face was calm, concerned, neutral.
“I had a call from Giris Sardai,” Jhai said. “He wants to see you—did he call?”
“This morning. He said he’d speak to you and that he’ll send a car. Is that okay? I’m really sorry, Madam Tserai—Jhai. I didn’t know how to refuse.”
“It’s all right, Robin. It’s not your fault. I told him we’d be glad to help. I gather there’s a problem? Their daughter’s missing—your friend?” Robin nodded, dumbly. Jhai purred, “That’s such a worry. But you mustn’t let it upset you. I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.”
“I’m sorry I’m taking time off—” Robin began again.
“It isn’t a problem. George Su can cover, it’s just an afternoon and you’ve got the link if anything happens, haven’t you? Anyway, I won’t be able to see you again today; I’m flying to Beijing later. So don’t worry. Go and get this sorted out. And obviously, Robin, there’s no wage payback, or anything. I’ll square it.” She left in a flurry of silks, leaving Robin standing in suspicious gratitude behind her. Jhai had been very decent, really. Jhai was always so sweet, and yet—there was always something so calculating behind it. Perhaps Robin was just envious of her employer’s wealth and beauty and talent, but still … Jhai never quite rang true. Anyway, Robin told herself, firmly, that wasn’t her problem.
6
The forensics lab had come through with a positive ID on the murdered girl. She was, scandalously, one Deveth Sardai: the daughter of a prominent socialite with links to half the city’s aristocracy.
“Went a bit off the rails, if you ask me,” Sergeant Ma said lugubriously.
“You knew her?” Zhu Irzh’s elegant eyebrows crawled upward; he had not pic
tured Ma’s social circle as being so elevated. Ma looked slightly abashed.
“Only from the papers.”
“What papers?”
After some evasion, it turned out that Ma was a fan of the cheaper, glossier press: the sort of magazines that turned up in supermarket racks, their pages displaying film stars’ lovely homes. Deveth Sardai, it seemed, along with her artfully Bohemian lifestyle, had featured regularly. Ma took an example from his desk drawer. Zhu Irzh stared down at a strong, willful face with heavy brows: Malaysian, he estimated, with a Westerner’s blue eyes. Unless she had worn contacts.
“She isn’t married, it says. Any mention of boyfriends?”
“No. Girlfriends, though.”
“She was a lesbian?” Zhu Irzh asked, vaguely intrigued.
“Fashionably so,” Ma told him. Zhu Irzh smiled; it wasn’t the kind of comment he expected from Ma.
“Well, any of her contacts could prove helpful. Better start making a list. I suggest you ring the magazine. Meanwhile, I suppose I’d better ask the captain to break it to her parents. Though since they haven’t reported her missing, I don’t suppose they were that close, but even so … they’d probably like to know what happened to her.”
In his office, Captain Sung regarded Zhu Irzh with his usual inexpressive gaze and the demon found himself fidgeting, like a child on the carpet of the principal’s study. The captain made Zhu Irzh uncomfortable; he could not shake off the impression that Sung was thinking back to the days of his ancestors, who had ridden the Mongolian steppes, sweeping all before them. Including demons. With Chen, who was after all married to a former citizen of Hell, Zhu Irzh was allowed to feel almost human, or at least, not noxious. With Sung, he had no doubt as to where he stood in the hierarchy of lower lifeforms, but the captain never let his animosity show and that unnerved Zhu Irzh more than anything.
“Seneschal,” Sung said formally.
