Citizen One

by Andy Oakes

  Smiling, the old papa.

  “I think that identifying such a ganbu as this, Comrade Policeman, will be within even your capabilities.”

  “I am sure that it will be, old papa. But I would sleep better at night if you allowed us to protect you. These are dangerous criminals, powerful criminals.”

  “Do you think that I am worried about your sleep, Comrade Policeman, when you have rudely woken me from mine?”

  A deep phlegmy laugh. Grubby fingers pulling the holed blanket over his head.

  “Now fuck off and let me be. Even a guang guan, even a harelip such as me, needs his beauty sleep.”

  Chapter 11

  The mouth of the Yanandonglu Tunnel, Pudong.

  The Jin Mao building, 420 metres of sculpted glass and fashioned steel. The People’s Republic’s tallest hotel.

  Levels 3 to 50, accommodating 10,000 office workers. The floors up to 87, occupied by the world’s tallest 5-star hotel, the Hyatt, with 555 guest rooms. Its 86th level providing a club for entrepreneurs only. On the 88th floor, the highest viewing point in the People’s Republic. Views as far as Hangzhou Bay, the Yellow Sea, the East China Sea, and if you were gifted with imagination, the Pacific Ocean.

  But it was a local tea house that they sat in, in the shadow of the Jin Mao building. Dark and long the shadow. A vast ebony knife slowly cutting the new financial hub of the city into portions.

  Amongst chrome and marble, the tea house sat forgotten; clinging by bitten fingernails to a place that it no longer belonged to. The tea house, a maiden aunt, long past her best. A little frayed. A little too much make-up. A little worse for alcohol. But a little bit of how Shanghai used to be before the dollars sloshed and the diggers bit and the cranes hauled even higher. Still the same tea house, the best in Shanghai. Still the best tea and baozi, the steamed bread filled with meat.

  But now, whether day or night, the tea house ten degrees colder than the surrounding buildings. Now, whether day or night, the tea house in darkness. As if it had been banished to another land. A darker, colder land.

  *

  A menu of bright smiles and easy pockets. No extra fen for the view, because there wasn’t one, or the white linen tablecloth, because the tabletops were bare, or the marble cladding, the chrome’s sparkle, the pianist’s winking smile, because the tea house was devoid of all of these trappings. Just tea as you have never tasted before. And the mama’s wobble-hipped sway between the tables and her broad smile at being left a tip of a few bent coined fen.

  A cigarette, a tea.

  “Is this all you have for breakfast, Boss?”

  Piao pushed a full ashtray away, pulling a fresh one closer.

  “No, sometimes I vary it. I have a cigarette, a beer. Another cigarette, another beer.”

  A beckon, a wink towards the mama at the kitchen hatch. Formica and steam. His best smile, the Big Man. Amalgam and macerated peanut.

  “Mama Lau, more of your specialities. And more of your delightful smile.”

  Minutes of crashing activity. Chipped cups, stained glasses on a wobbly tray, moving in between the tables to Mama Lau’s hips in synchronous roll. Plates unloaded. Pickled vegetables, peanuts, Mantou, stuffed with red bean paste. Doufu, soya cheese. Tsingtao beers, and hongcha, red tea, as bitter as a widow’s tears.

  A full beamed glare of false teeth as the mama swept like a tanker around the tables, back toward the kitchen, followed by Yaobang’s admiring gaze.

  “Built like a fucking tenement block, eh Boss? Just how I like them.”

  “Like them, but never had them.”

  “Now, now, Boss. A bit grumpy aren’t we, not enough sleep? Come, eat, Boss. A man needs to eat, especially active comrades like us. You have to keep your energy levels high.”

  Tea washing the bitterness away with sweetness, in two gulps, the cup empty. Across its insides, across the Big Man’s tongue, a seeding of shredded leafed Hongcha.

  “I mean, shit, you never know what’s around the corner in this job.”

  Piao stirring the tea again, three times, and then another for extra luck.

  “I want you to go and see the Comrade Chief Officer. Tell him nothing about what we know or what we have seen. Tell him only of what we need now. The computer equipment. The Internet connection. We will operate from my flat.”

  “Isn’t that taking a bit of a risk, Boss? Why not a safe house out of the city? These murderers are not shy about blooding a PSB uniform.”

  “For now we stay here. A panda is not an unusual sight amongst a group of other pandas, but place it within a herd of buffalo. Then see Chief Warden Mai Lin Hua at ‘Virtue Forest’. Rentang. I want him out early to do some work for us. Mai Lin Hua can fix it. He owes me. He owes me big …”

  “ ‘The Wizard’. What’s the bastard in for this time, Boss?”

  “Profiteering and selling pornographic images over the Internet. Bring him to my place early tomorrow. He can base himself there.”

  “Think he’ll give me some free samples, Boss?”

  A look over the chipped crescent moon of the cup enough. The Wizard, not a man, as any Shainghainese mama would say, who would even give you the ‘drippings from his nose’.

  “Anyway, what do you want him for, Boss? You know what he’s like. He’ll shit in your back pocket and tell you it’s loose change.”

  “He has specialist skills. He can reach places that we cannot. ‘Cao-mu jie-bing’, always a good tactic if you get the opportunity.”

  “ ‘Turning the dead cat’, and a fucking dangerous one, Boss.”

  Silence as the mama cleared plates, replacing the gaps on the table with more food, more drinks. Pickling vinegar, hongcha, the steam from fresh mantou … the combination of sweet smells, earth smells, reminding Piao of funerals. So many funerals. So few baby blessings.

  “The roads from the site, the National Stadium, you checked them?”

  “Sure, Boss. What else have I got to do with my life? Two routes. One, nothing. Asked in shops, bakeries, offices. No one saw a thing. The second route less high profile. It runs parallel to the A-20 Highway through the Nan Hui District. Past the Sun Qiao Agricultural Zone it runs north to the Huangpu, just past the Yang Pu Bridge. Checked it all the way. Not a garage, house, or shop that I didn’t call in on. Less high profile route, but more twists and turns than a fucking whore’s walk across the city on a Saturday night.”

  Opening another Tsingtao on the side of the table.

  “Two low-loaders. Everybody on the route saw them, couldn’t miss them. Big bastards. Got caught at every junction, every fucking turn. Ploughed across one garden, the old mama had a right go at them.”

  The thirst of a stray dog at a puddle. Finishing the bottle in three swallows.

  “The route comes out on a concrete pier, an old wharf almost under the bridge itself. Checked the place out. The derricks are still working and had been greased up and used recently. Also cigarette butts in the cabs. And beer cans.”

  “Any foreign cigarette butts?”

  A shake of the head as Piao poured another cup of hongcha.

  “Asked around. An office block across the river. Some of the workers – you know, suits, ties, and fucking tight arses – they saw two large barges being loaded up. Couldn’t see much else though, Boss. Everything shrouded in tarpaulins.”

  The Big Man picking up another beer, his anger circling its bruised cap.

  “You have more to tell me.”

  “How do you know that, Boss?”

  The Senior Investigator sipping the tea, the hongcha. Once, twice, three times. Wet leaves. Hot summer nights.

  “ ‘Investigation may be likened to the long months of pregnancy, and solving a problem to the day of birth. To investigate a problem is, indeed, to solve it.’ ”

  “So, who said that, Boss?”

  “Mao Zedong.”

  “He said a fucking lot, didn’t he?”

  Fingers worrying away at the Tsingtao’s bottle cap, the Big Man.


  “Should have handed this job over, Boss. A mistake, a big mistake.”

  Shaking his head. Finally opening the bottle, its shiny bottle cap spinning to floor.

  “The low-loaders, Boss, I’ve checked it over and over again. All the witnesses say it. They had PLA markings. The low-loaders had People’s Liberation Army markings.”

  Chapter 12

  ‘What really counts in the world is conscientiousness, and the Communist Party is most particular about being conscientious.’

  Chairman Mao, Moscow, November 17th 1957

  The People’s Republic of China.

  56 million Internet users.

  17 million computers linked to the Internet.

  250,000 Chinese language websites.

  200,000 Cyber Cafés …

  Many open 24 hours a day …

  Many with 1,000 Internet linked computers.

  Such is the hunger …

  *

  Such is the hunger that all Inernet Service Providers are required to install specialist software. Recording every message sent and received. Messages that violate any law, such messages are to be reported, and forwarded to three government agencies. The Bureau for the Protection of State Secrets. The Ministry of Public Security. The Ministry of Information. The message is then to be deleted.

  Such is the hunger that all ISPs have signed a public pledge of 31 articles to promote ‘self-discipline’. To promote ‘patriotism and the observance of law’. Surfing, reaping the rewards that the Internet can bring, whilst creating a firewall that will save the populace of the People’s Republic from what is beyond. Ideas that could corrupt. Tastes that could water the mouth. Viewpoints that might taint.

  Such is the hunger that sixty sets of stringent regulations to govern Internet cafés, enforced by eight Ministries, led by the Ministry of Public Security, have been released. A business must be closed between the hours of 12 p.m. and 8 a.m. A business cannot be located within 200 metres of a school. A business must check the identification papers of its customers before they use a computer. A business must not allow its customers to access ‘subversive’ material. A business must show its records and customer details to the authorities on request. ‘Walkers’ are now employed in every cyber café. Looking over shoulders. Monitoring each Internet user. What they access. What they send. What they open.

  Such is the hunger …

  Chapter 13

  9 a.m. A key in the lock, turning. Instantly awake. An adrenalin rush. The door opening. Her face, its residue still in his eyes.

  “You all right, Boss?”

  Disappointment, a lead weight to the heart. Wishing, and at the same time not wishing, that it had been her.

  Yaobang stooping, picking up mail. Behind him, Rentang, the ex-PSB computer genius whom they had nicknamed ‘The Wizard’. His pale face dominated by the square oversized frames of his spectacles.

  “Got your package, Boss,” Yaobang nodding behind him.

  “Stupid bastard. He was more nervous coming here than staying on in Virtue Forest. Some people don’t know when their dumplings are stuffed or not.”

  Pulling a blanket around himself, the Senior Investigator. Backs of hands to his eyes. Her almond eyes and painted lips rubbed away. But words, yet too hard to find. Too hot for the tongue.

  The Big Man pulling Rentang behind him toward the living room. An obstinate child hauled towards his aunt’s pouting-lipped kiss. The Wizard sitting reluctantly on the edge of the worn couch, arms folded across his rough prison shirt.

  “Number one, fat Detective, I’m nobody’s package and you and your Senior Investigator boss are not stuffed dumplings. As soon as your back is turned, I’m off and back to Gongdelin.”

  Removing his spectacles, wiping the lenses with his cuff. His eyes incredibly small.

  “People have a habit of dying around you two. I don’t intend to be one of them. Dao-mei. That’s what you are. Fucking dao-mei.”

  “Hasn’t lost his sense of humour, has he, Boss?”

  “No. No, he has not.”

  Piao taking the letters one by one from the Big Man’s hand. One by one tearing them up and throwing them into the cold fire grate.

  “The equipment?”

  Looking at Yaobang.

  “Zoul promised it this afternoon, Boss. The full package. Also telephone lines and an Internet connection. He’ll be able to start working this afternoon.”

  Smiling. The remnants from a hurried breakfast of peanuts and pickled vegetables still across the front of his teeth.

  “Be happy in your work Comrade Rentang.”

  “Fuck off, fat man. I just want to do my time in Gongdelin and start afresh. Someone with my skills will always be in demand. I’m the best there is. The very best.”

  Piao moving into the bathroom. The sound of water. Cold. Bitter.

  “You will do as we ask. We want names. A cadre, Shang-hainese, but educated abroad. Possibly PLA. Possibly PSB, but look also within other bureaus. He likes killing girls, raping them. He enjoys torturing comrade officers.”

  Behind spectacle lenses the Wizard’s eyes expanding.

  “He might already be known for his violence, or for depraved sexual acts. But he has friends in high places and they have already leant on our Comrade Chief Officer, so these records might not be in the usual places. So look in the unusual places … and he has a harelip.”

  Rentang moving to his feet.

  “Harelip? Torture? Killings? Friends in high places? Your mother’s a ‘turtle’s egg’, Piao. I’m doing nothing for you. Ta ma de.”

  Turning, walking toward the door. The Big Man, one hand pushing him back into his chair. Piao, his shirt falling to the floor; water, with a reluctance, soaking into polyester.

  “I want the lot. Personal histories, personal data, danwei records, financial profile, associates …”

  Returning to the living room and lighting the last cigarette in the pack. The first of the day. The best of the day. The last of the day. Pulling on a fresh shirt.

  “There will be other data needed also. Data to add to a file of Investigator Di’s that I am wading through. Three prostitutes murdered; a fourth, a survivor, cut-up.”

  “Then let him do it. Ta ma de. Di, the lazy fucking bastard.”

  “He’s fucking dead, you arsehole. Crucified with steel spikes and then this harelip played on his body with an oxy-acetylene torch.”

  Visibly paling, Rentang. His face as lead grey as his spectacle lenses.

  “A good man, Di. A good man. Did me a few favours. Looked in the other direction more than a few times.”

  Piao throwing a pad of paper onto his lap. Virgin white sheet, except for a single number spiking its centre.

  473309169972

  “This number is on that file. Discover what meaning it has.”

  Unable to find a comb, the Senior Investigator dragging his fingers through his wet hair.

  “It could be a report number. Possibly a case number. A passport number? Start close to home, PSB, Party records, Luxingshe, and work your way out. You will live here, sleep here, shit here, until the job is done. Deputy Investigator Yaobang will enlarge upon what I have said in his usual eloquent manner.”

  The Wizard, his eyes avoiding Piao’s.

  “Three more months in Gongdelin and I’m a free man. A job across the river or in the New Territories. A life and dollars by the bucket-full. And so, wangba dan, Investigator. You keep your sad life, I’m out of the sewer that you and your fat Deputy run in.”

  Attempting to stand, but the Big Man’s palm in his chest, pushing him back down.

  “I also want to know how I managed to be released from a hand that does not relax its grip: Ankang. Where the trail leads back to. Who put me in, who took me out.”

  “You’re not hearing me, Piao. Did Ankang turn you deaf, or did the medication turn you stupid? You’re bad news, yesterday’s news. You’re dangerous, Senior Investigator. My days of doing shitty jobs for you are over.”


  Again, attempting to stand, but pushed deeply back into place. The Senior Investigator carefully placing his China Brand in the ashtray. Pulling a large envelope from a drawer and tipping its contents onto the Wizard’s lap. Taking the spectacles from his fingers and placing them oh so carefully on the bridge of his nose. Photographs, so familiar, taking shape. Blurs into focus. Images translating into a rising pulse rate.

  “Your better work, if I may say so. Of course the court did not have the opportunity to appreciate that, did they? They never got to see these more personal photographs.”

  One by one, turning them over in Rentang’s lap.

  “That is Comrade Bai of the Supreme People’s Procurate.”

  Another print.

  “The tong zhi, Lu Shiying, Head of the Institute for Legal Sociological and Juvenile Delinquency.”

  Another print.

  “Comrade Yang Chun Xi, Associate Professor at the Institute for Crime Prevention at the Ministry of Justice.”

  Yaobang watching from behind, his hands braced on the Wizard’s bony shoulders.

  “Fuck me, who are the yeh-jis, Boss?”

  “The prostitutes were brought in specially from Hong Kong. That one was sixteen years old. That one, also sixteen. The one on her knees is just fourteen years of age.”

  “It’s good to know that our most esteemed comrades are keeping abreast of juvenile delinquency and crime prevention, eh Boss?”

  Piao gathering the prints up and slotting them back into the folder.

  “Good scam. Your business associates put on a party. Free alcohol, drugs, sexually transmitted diseases. What cadre could refuse such an offer?”

  The Wizard’s cheeks, with the crimson blooms of a ‘wild pheasant’s’ lipsticked kisses.

  “How did you get the images? From a wardrobe? A telephoto lens?”

  Re-sealing the folder. The Wizard’s eyes never leaving it.

  “I stand in a wardrobe for no one. State of the art technology. Fibre optic, remotely controlled.”