Snake Agent

by Liz Williams

With many protestations of the honor done to the establishment, the stout man ushered Chen inside. The interior of the funeral parlor was as ostentatious as the facade. Chen was shown into a long, mirrored room with a scarlet rug. Carp floated in a wall-length tank at the far end of the room, their reflections drifting to infinity in the multiple mirrors. The stout man clapped his hands, twice, summoning a small, wan maid.

  “Tea?” whispered the maid.

  “Thanks. What sort do you have?”

  The maid closed her eyes for a moment and recited:

  “Jade Dragon Oolong; Peach and Ginseng; Gunpowder Black …” She rattled through a list of some fifteen teas before Chen could stop her. Evidently the funeral parlor was not short of funds.

  “I’ll have any of the oolongs. Thank you.”

  “Now, Detective Inspector.” The stout owner of the funeral parlor settled himself into a nearby armchair. “I am Su Lo Ling, the proprietor of this establishment. What can we do to help?”

  “I understand you handled the funeral arrangements for a ceremony a week ago, for a girl named Pearl Tang. The daughter of someone who needs no introduction from me.”

  “Indeed, indeed. So very sad. Such a young woman. Anorexia is a most tragic condition. It just goes to show,” and here Mr Ling shook his head philosophically, “that not even the materially blessed among us may attain true happiness.”

  “How very wise. Forgive me for asking such a delicate question, but were there any—irregularities—with the funeral?”

  “None whatsoever. You must understand, Detective Inspector, that we are a very old firm. The Lings have been in the funeral business since the seventeenth century, in what was then Peking, before I moved the business here. Our connections with the relevant authorities are ancient. There have never been any difficulties with the paperwork.” A small pause. “Might I ask why you pose such a question?”

  “Your establishment does indeed possess a most honorable reputation,” Chen said. “However, I fear that an irregularity—doubtless nothing to do with the manner in which Pearl’s funeral was handled—has nonetheless occurred.”

  “Oh?” There was the faintest flicker of unease in Ling’s face, which Chen noted.

  “You see, it appears that the young lady in question did not in fact reach the Celestial Shores. A ghost-photograph of her has been taken, revealing her current whereabouts to be somewhere in the port area of Hell.”

  Ling’s mouth sagged open in shock.

  “In Hell? But the payments were made, the sacrifices impeccably ordered … I don’t understand.”

  “Neither does her mother.”

  “The poor woman must be distraught.”

  “She is naturally concerned that the spirit of her only child is not now reclining among the peach orchards of Heaven, but currently appears to be wandering around a region best described as dodgy,” Chen said.

  “I’ll show you the paperwork. I’ll go and get it now.”

  Together, Ling and Chen pored over the documents. To Chen’s experienced eyes, everything seemed to be in order: the immigration visa with the Celestial authorities, the docking fees of the ghost-boat, the license of passage across the Sea of Night. He felt sure that the explanation for Pearl’s manifestation in the infernal realms could be traced back to Ling, but the parlor owner’s round face was a paradigm of bland concern.

  “Well,” Chen said at last. “This is indeed a tragedy, but I can see nothing here that is at all irregular. I realize that you operate a policy of strict confidentiality, but if you should happen to hear anything—”

  “Your august ears will be the first to know,” Ling assured him, and with innumerable expressions of mutual gratitude, Chen departed.

  He returned to the precinct, intending to make some additions to his report, but on arrival he was summoned to the office of the precinct captain. Sung eyed him warily as he stepped through the door. Captain Su Sung looked more like one of Genghis Khan’s descendants than ever, Chen reflected. Sung’s family was Uighur, from the far west of China, and he was known to be proud of the fact. A subtle man, Chen reflected, a man who looked like everyone’s notion of a barbarian and capitalized upon it to hide a quick intelligence.

  “Afternoon, Detective Inspector,” Sung said now, with civility.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Chen said with equal politeness.

  “H’suen Tang’s wife has been to see you.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  “That’s right. This morning. Her daughter’s gone missing.”

  “And her daughter’s already dead, right?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  Captain Sung sighed. “All right, Detective. I leave all this supernatural business to you, as you know, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. But I’ve had an e-mail from the governor’s office this afternoon. The governor’s a friend of the Tangs, it seems, and apparently Mrs Tang hasn’t been—well, quite right in the head since her daughter died. In fact, she’s evidently been behaving strangely for months, and Tang’s naturally concerned. The last thing he wants is a scandal.”

  Su Sung sat back in his chair and contemplated his subordinate through half-closed lids. The air conditioning was still down, and the captain’s office was as hot as an oven. A thin thread of sweat trickled down the back of Chen’s neck.

  “Scandal?” Chen said with careful neutrality. “Perhaps you might elaborate?”

  “Do enough work to keep Mrs Tang happy, but don’t start shit-stirring. The last thing anyone wants is for the press to get hold of the fact that H’suen Tang’s fourteen-year-old daughter was working as a cut-price whore.”

  “I’ll be discreet,” Chen said. Unexpectedly, Sung smiled, which transformed his heavy features into something resembling menace.

  “Make sure you are,” the captain said.

  Chen went back to his desk, pretending not to notice that his colleagues hastily drew coats and papers aside as he passed by. He sat down, reached for the little phial containing the flatscreen, then poured its contents carefully over the desk panel. The thin nanofilm of the flatscreen oozed across the panel like watery slime, and Chen wondered again whether he’d done the right thing in choosing this particular color scheme. When the new technology had been introduced, most of Chen’s colleagues had selected lucky red as their flatscreen color, but Chen had chosen green, feeling in the back of his mind that the less resemblance the thing bore to blood, the better. Now, he watched suspiciously as the flatscreen settled into its panel and its programs started to run. He did not trust all this new biotech, no matter how much the media raved about it. What was wrong with good, old-fashioned electronics, and a nice colored box like a large, boiled sweet that you could turn on and off with your finger? As for the technology that lay behind it—using actual human beings as interface nexi for this new equipment, let alone subjecting them to supposedly benign viruses—it all sounded deeply unnatural to Chen. Then again, the nexi volunteered, and they were certainly rumored to be well paid. Well, that was progress for you. Chen heaved a sigh of relief as the data scrolled across the screen; at least he’d done it properly this time and the screen hadn’t ended up oozing onto the floor.

  Moving the pen with care across the surface of the screen, Chen called up a list of the city’s death records over the course of the last month. Pearl Tang’s name was among them, and so were the names of a number of young girls. Chen frowned, and scrolled through the records of the spring, summoning up coroners’ reports and trying to discern patterns. Anorexia was reported in a number of cases, but then, this was hardly unusual. If he really wanted a lead (which given the captain’s warnings, Chen was not sure that he did), it would make sense to call up the Celestial records as well.

  Sighing, Chen scribbled a note on a piece of red paper and took out his cigarette lighter. At least this was technology that he could understand. He folded the note into an intricate octagon, muttered a brief prayer, and set the note alight. Then he waited as it crumbled into frag
rant ash and dispersed into whatever airs existed between Heaven and the world of Earth. Time for another cup of tea, Chen decided, and made his way as unobtrusively as possible to the vending machine.

  When he returned, the requested data was already scrolling down the screen: some conscientious Celestial clerk in the Immigration Office, Chen supposed. He was rather hazy about the modus operandi of communications between the other realms and the world of the living; once upon a time, the mandates of the gods would have been made known through signs in the heavens or from the lips of prophets, but now that the People’s Republic of China was a modern twenty-first-century state, who knew how deities and demons alike managed the interfaces? One thing was certain, however: this new method of bio-communication was a lot faster than the old system. In the old days—that is, up until a year ago—he would have had to wait over an hour before the required data was transmitted. Now, it had come through in minutes.

  Sipping his tea, Chen began cross-referencing the names of the girls who had died against the names of those spirits who had actually arrived in Heaven. The Celestial Immigration Department was a body of legendary pedantry and thoroughness, and Chen was sure that no one would have slipped through the net. Yet at least five of the names on the deceased list were not matched by corresponding records in Immigration. This might mean, of course, only that the spirits had been destined for Hell, not Heaven; getting hold of Hell’s records would take longer, and would also mean calling in several favors. Chen glanced at the clock. It was already close to seven, long after the end of his shift. If he could get hold of his contacts this evening, he thought, pressure might be brought to bear … He was about to pick up his jacket and leave the precinct house when the large and tremulous face of Sergeant Ma manifested like an apparition over the partition of the cubicle.

  “Detective Inspector?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a phone call for you. From H’suen Tang. He says it’s urgent.”

  Chen was suddenly aware of a cold constriction in his chest, as though his lungs had begun to crystallize. He said, “Okay. Thanks for telling me. Put him through.”

  At the other end of the line, H’suen Tang’s voice sounded tinny and distant, as though he were speaking from the bottom of a well. The industrialist said without preamble, “Chen, isn’t it? My wife came to see you this morning. Your name and number were written in her diary.” He paused, expectantly, but Chen said nothing, deeming it better to await developments. Besides, he resented the industrialist’s preemptory tone, and he’d long since ceased to be impressed by the power wielded by other human beings. In terms of the larger metaphysical picture, Tang was a very small fish indeed. But Tang’s next words surprised him. The industrialist said, “Look, I need your help. I think something’s happened to my wife.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you’d better come over and see for yourself.” Tang sounded both afraid and irritable, as if annoyed by the unfamiliar phenomenon of his own fear. Calmly, Chen took the details of the address and hung up. He considered calling a taxi, but the traffic situation in Singapore Three was so dire at rush hour that it was quicker to go by tram. Chen left the precinct house at a brisk trot and headed for the nearest stop, where he found a disconsolate queue of people waiting for the next available tram. It was, if such a thing were possible, even more humid than the afternoon. Chen mopped his brow with a tissue, but was instantly moist once more. He thought with longing of his home: the houseboat swaying gently in the currents of the harbor, and the breezes from the South China Sea like the breath of water dragons, spice-laden and cool. He closed his eyes and pictured Inari as she pottered about the houseboat: watering plants; humming to herself beneath her breath as she selected ingredients for the hot dishes she loved to make, as close an approximation as she could to the meals of her native home. Chen hoped he wouldn’t be home too late, and wondered with unease precisely what Tang had meant by “something.”

  A rattling roar from around the corner and the singing of the rails in the heat signaled the approach of the tram. Two elderly ladies elbowed Chen out of the way and sat down in the only free seats like a pair of collapsed puppets, smiling in triumph. Chen didn’t begrudge the seats, but he wished that the tram was not quite so steamy and crowded, and did not smell so pungently of garlic. Hanging grimly to a strap, he closed his eyes once more as the tram lurched towards downtown. After what seemed like several hours, but could only have been fifteen minutes or so, the tram swayed to a stop outside the Pellucid Island Opera House and Chen fought his way to the door, eventually being expelled like a firecracker onto the sweltering street.

  It was now past seven, and the light was beginning to die over the port: apricot deepening to rose where a sliver of sky was revealed between the skyscrapers. The Tang family lived behind the Opera House, in the Garden District. Chen made his way around the imposing wedding-cake bulk of the Opera House, automatically noting the program. If the weekend didn’t turn out to be occupied with corpses and visitations, perhaps he would take Inari to a show. Reaching the edge of the Garden District, Chen stopped and looked back. The length of Shaopeng Street ran like an arrow towards the port, golden with the gleam of neon, but around the Opera House the lamps were coming on, hazy in the growing twilight. Cicadas rattled in the branches of the oleander, and the air smelled of pollution and food. Checking the address that Tang had given him, Chen made his way through suddenly quiet streets, each garden seemingly merging into the rest and heavy with hibiscus and magnolia. Chen knew, however, that if he stepped incautiously onto the edge of one of those velvet lawns, alarms would sound and tripwires would be activated. The thought of a brace of sharkhounds racing towards him was not appealing, either; Chen took good care to keep to the pavement.

  Once he reached the Tang’s mansion, he paused for a moment and stood considering it. The mansion was built in the worse excesses of fin de siècle taste: turrets and balconies sprouted here and there, and two anomalous Greek naiads, both facing the same way, flanked the portico. Chen thought of his modest houseboat with increased longing. No lights appeared to be on, and Chen regarded this as ominous. He stepped up to the entry post and activated the scanner. There was a whirr as the defenses were dismissed, and a voice said, “Enter.”

  Chen walked up the driveway to find that the front door was open and an emaciated man in late middle age was standing in the doorway.

  “H’suen Tang?” Chen asked in some surprise, since it seemed hardly likely that the industrialist would be answering his own front door, but the man said in a voice like an ancient bird, “Yes, indeed. And you are Detective Inspector Chen? Come in, come in.”

  Chen had seen Tang’s face plastered beneath a hundred headlines in the financial press, but his impression had been of a jowly individual with an arrogant, impassive stare. This man was thin and reedy; a Mandarin scholar rather than a key player in the nation’s industrial base. When Chen studied him more closely, he saw that traces of the jowls remained; Tang’s face sagged, like wax that had been held too close to a flame.

  “And Mrs Tang?” Chen murmured.

  The industrialist’s face grew blank, as though he did not want to listen to his own words. He said, “Through here.”

  Chen followed him into an ornate room, evidently some kind of parlor. The room was furnished with little acknowledgement to taste: Chen’s initial impression was of a stuffy, overwhelming opulence, a banquet of crimson velvet and gilded wood. It was the kind of room that someone with too much money and a passing acquaintance with Versailles might have attempted to reproduce, unhindered by concepts relating to vulgarity. Chen was immediately reminded of the funeral parlor. On a red, stuffed chair harnessed by flying cherubs sat Mrs Tang. Her face was perfectly blank. She smiled slightly, and her hands were clasped about the Miucci purse that rested in her silken lap. At first, Chen thought she was wearing gloves, but then he saw that the skin of her hands was blood-red.

  “I found her like that
an hour ago,” Tang said mournfully. “She hasn’t moved.”

  Chen approached the motionless woman and crouched on his heels in front of her. Her eyes were wide open, and behind them he could see a curious gilded film. He glanced over his shoulder to find out where the light was coming from, only to find that the door was shut and the only illumination came from one of the chandeliers at the other end of the room, behind Mrs Tang. He reached out and touched a tentative finger to the pulse in the woman’s throat, where he detected a faint, irregular beat.

  “Have you called a doctor?” Chen asked.

  The industrialist nodded. “My personal physician has been to see her. He’s upstairs now, on the phone.”

  “And his diagnosis?”

  Tang shuffled his feet, ashamed. “Possession.”

  “Yes, I’m inclined to agree. Something’s apparently got to her … Well, we’d better arrange for an exorcism.”

  “Detective Inspector,” said Tang, clawing at Chen’s arm. “You do realize that I am anxious to avoid a scandal?”

  “Don’t worry,” Chen said. “We’ll be very discreet.” He glanced at a nearby ormolu clock and sighed. It was already close to eight. “Do you mind if I make a quick phone call?”

  “Certainly.”

  Chen stepped out into the hall, reluctant to let whatever might be occupying Mrs Tang, to overhear his conversation. He dialed the home number of the departmental exorcist, and after a moment, Lao’s familiar, irritable voice answered.

  “Chen, is that you? What is it this time?”

  Chen explained, and Lao gave a martyred sigh. “Can’t it wait till tomorrow? My wife’s just put dinner on the table.”

  “Sorry, but no,” Chen said firmly.

  “If you put the victim to bed and keep their feet warm it sometimes goes away of its own accord. Green tea helps, too.”

  “Lao, this is urgent.”

  “Oh, very well,” the exorcist grumbled. “Where is it?”

  Chen told him.

  “Not on the other side of town, then, as it usually is … Give me a moment to find my shoes.”