by Andy Oakes
“Too perfect, like writing your own reference. No one could be such a fine comrade, Mao himself included.”
Remembering the Great Helmsman’s spit-drenching anger. His fondness, especially in later life, for the company of much younger women comrades.
Pouring more tea, the Senior Investigator.
“To fashion a report such as this is easy for such a powerful princeling. Especially for one with a father such as Senior Colonel Gu Qi.”
Pacing, the Big Man.
“A Senior Colonel, this princeling’s father. An army billeted in his back garden. What can we fucking do against that?”
“What we can do is what we can. We start off by asking our Wizard to find us something out of the ordinary. This princeling, I want to know him intimately. Financial details, relationships, his comings and goings, strengths and weaknesses. Especially weaknesses. Everything.”
“But investigating comrades like this will get us killed, Boss. We will be found in the Huangpu, and I can’t swim.”
Slapping him on the back, the Senior Investigator.
“Swimming will not help when you are wrapped in chains.”
“Thanks Boss, very comforting.”
But Piao’s thoughts elsewhere.
“Tell the Wizard that if he cannot find what we are looking for in the PLA’s files, to find it somewhere else.”
“Where, Boss?”
“Danwei files. Party files. Hospital medical records. University records. He was educated abroad in England. They would have required many details about him before they offered to train him as an officer.”
“And when we find whatever it is, Boss, will it be an eye for an eye?”
Piao moving toward the door. Timber, once worn smooth by ten thousand urgent palms, now painted over in brown, drip-proof gloss. Pushing the door open. The corridor beyond smelling of newly-fashioned plastic and sweaty groins.
“An eye for an eye will make us all blind, Deputy.”
*
“Well?”
Yun squirming a familiar squirm. Trying to hide it with activity. Reports and arrest forms in triplicate.
“I couldn’t get hold of him.”
Pen in pale, nail-bitten fingered strokes.
“Zoul’s been at a danwei conference, yesterday and today. On no account can he be disturbed.”
“On no account?”
Eyes averted. A shake of the head.
“Not even for this?”
A glance toward the desk. A circle of PSB uniforms, at the centre of its olive ring, the four PLA tai zis.
“I don’t know, I couldn’t get that far. But I left him a note.”
The Senior Investigator’s fingers finding a paperclip. Tracing its trapped steel loop.
“To be blunt, Piao, I’m surprised. Well perhaps not surprised, after all it is you that we are talking about …”
His face, as if he had bought a dumpling for 50 fen, and had then seen them being sold in the shop next door for 25 fen.
“But not to tell us the identity and rank of these tai zi comrades, especially the PLA colonel, well, to be frank, it’s, it’s …”
“It is what, Detective Yun?”
“It is very worrying. Yes, very worrying indeed. This is a tai zi with a very powerful father. He could, he could …”
“He could what, fellow Comrade Officer? Transfer us? Wreck our careers? Perhaps lao jiao? Perhaps a one-way trip to the Huangpu’s muddy banks on a night when there is no full moon? Perhaps crucify us and play with his oxy-acetylene torch over us?”
“Keep your voice down, Piao. Walls have ears, even newly-constructed walls.”
A concerned look over his shoulder.
“With a PLA cadre like this, Piao, all is possible.”
“Yes, you are correct, my good friend, Detective Yun. You are, as always, correct.”
“Then perhaps we should, should …”
“Should what, Yun? Perhaps apologise to him profusely? Tell him that his arrest was a mistake, human error, or mistaken identity? Offer him tea and then escort him back to the Shanghai Garrison that his ‘very powerful father’ commands?”
“Exactly my thinking, Senior Investigator. Exactly my thinking.”
“Let me get this exactly right, Yun. What you propose is to release a tai zi who has murdered three young comrades and mutilated a fourth. A tai zi who crucified our fellow Comrade Officers, Detective Di and his Deputy. Who used an oxy-acetylene torch on Detective Di and his Deputy as a means of torture. And who then had them murdered by driving spikes through their foreheads. Is this an accurate account of what you wish?”
“No, no, no, Sun Piao. You have confused the matter, as always.”
Bubbles of spit across his bottom lip.
“This princeling, this Zhong Qi, how do you know that he has done these things? There was no evidence.”
“But there is, Yun. Evidence that will link him inextricably to both crimes.”
“What about, what about…”
“Witnesses?”
“Witnesses, yes. There are no witnesses to what you say that this PLA colonel has done. The heinous crimes that you say that he has committed.”
“But there are, Detective Yun.”
“Ta ma de. Ta ma de.”
“This is a serial killer, Detective. Even though in the People’s Republic, we do not ‘officially’ possess such a unique creature. A serial killer. But an arrogant one. And arrogance, as you know, Yun, is a meal un-salted.”
Yun leaving his chair. A worried orbit of the custody desk, his eyes avoiding the PLA as they were led down to the interview rooms. Returning to his seat. A minute or two before he felt able to speak.
“You are a hurricane, Sun Piao. You leave no house with a roof.”
“The three PLA, I want them in interview room one. The PLA tai zi colonel by himself in interview room four.”
Shaking his head, Yun.
“They will be ready for you in five minutes, Sun Piao.”
“Good. I will be there in thirty. They can wait for me. There is no hurry.”
A smile.
“ ‘You do not help shoots grow faster by pulling them up with your fingers’.”
*
Twenty minutes, Piao washing, re-washing his face, hands. As if trying to cleanse himself and disengage from something that tainted. A stain on the soul. Between each cold water baptism studying his reflection in the mirror. Seeking something that was no longer there. But worse of all not knowing what it was that he was looking for. Only his finger tracing the pink track of his scar through his eyebrow, drawing threads of something that he sought, and with that a hard pinch of recollection. In the harsh vice of detoxification, standing in a bath, moving with the sway of some anonymous internal melody. The water as cold, in a bitter baptism over his head. In a sheet, down his body. Yaobang balancing on a chair, a reluctant gymnast, stepping gingerly to the flooded floor, re-filling the metal bucket, taking his place, with a moan of stressed timber. The chair in a violent wobble and spill of water. Six buckets, six violent wobbles, six spills. Piao, arms by his sides, riding the zinc-coated wave. Nothing else. Just the water. Just the sensation of it across his hair, skin. Across his eyes in a deluge of clarity. More water, colder than the last. Achingly cold. And through its ache, across his tongue, a taste, burnt almonds and iron. And then the world in a satin-sheathed shunt. Tipping, the walls, the ceiling, and the Big Man. So slow, at first … but accelerating. The taps, brass and angular, rearing-up, sprinting to greet him. But not caring. Even as they collided, not caring. Unable to care. Just darkness and a taste of blood in the very corner of his mouth. Honey and pepper. Down his chin in a frothy warm flow. Sensing, even in this purdah of shadows, a panic of activity around him. Disembodied voices shouting. But words lost in the seizure’s insistent embrace. Nothing within it for him. Only one thing constant within the darkness, the Big Man’s hand clenched around his. Tight, dependably tight. An anchor to the other side of the epileptic storm.
His only anchor.
Only when another officer came into the toilet, Piao able to rip himself away. Turning the taps off. Drying his face and hands. Banishing the memories; moving fast, too fast for them to latch back onto him. Just the corridor, the stairs, another corridor, and then the interview room …
*
Interview room one.
Three PLA Officers in one corner of the room. Animated talk. Dart-eyed, fat, milk-fed faces.
Silence as Piao confidently entered. Beside the door a large reel to reel tape recorder. Flicking the burnished switch. Mirror heads shifting into place. One tape reel in leisurely arcs, tape flicking out its life. The other reel in urgent catch-up sprint. From an envelope, three prints. Placing them meticulously, equidistant on the table top. From a folder three charge sheets. Comparing and then matching faces with electronically enhanced prints.
“You, here. Come here. This is you? Yes?”
Tapping the first print with his knuckles.
“Yes.”
“Louder please, for the record.”
“I said, yes, that is me. But what is this picture? Where did …”
“Your name?”
Thick red marker to hand.
“Name?”
“Ang.”
Red marker writing the name at the bottom of the page.
“Sit.”
No noise in the PLA Officer’s footfall.
“You, here. This is you, yes? I said that this looks like you, Comrade PLA. Is it?”
Silence. Just the flick-flick of recording tape in slow orbits.
“I am not sure. Not sure …”
A glance over his shoulder, the tai zi, with nervous eyes.
“Is this you, or do I have to find your mama to identify the subject of this photograph?”
“It looks like me. It is me. Yes.”
“Louder. Our tape recorder is old.”
“It looks like me.”
Words shouted. Almost an order.
“I said louder. Much louder, PLA.”
“Me, it’s me, Comrade Officer.”
A more gentle voice. A coaxing command.
“And who is me, Comrade Officer? What is your name?”
“Tsung.”
“Sit, Officer Tsung. Sit.”
Walking back to the other side of the room, avoiding eye contact with his brother officers.
“You. Here.”
No movement.
“I said here. Now.”
No movement. Pao, moving to the door. A whispered word. Thirty seconds later two large PSB Officers lumbering into the room. Tunics too tight over stomachs which were too big. The Senior Investigator pointing.
“That one. I want him here.”
Only as the were almost upon him the PLA Officer standing, smoothing down a perfectly tailored jacket and walking to the table.
“Thank you, Comrade PLA.”
The third print. The clearest print. Piao’s knuckle tapping upon it, as if to open some long frozen lock in memory’s door.
“I believe that this is you, Comrade Officer.”
Manicured fingers delicately turning the print around.
“Where did this picture come from?”
“What does it matter? A face is a face. Whether that face is in a Friendship Store buying fine French wines, or in a whorehouse on the Beijing Road drinking them. Or perhaps an officer like you, who undoubtedly comes from an esteemed family, has so many faces that he now cannot remember the face that he was born with?”
Just the flick of the recording tape and the tick of the clock.
“Let us see. One, a face to greet your wealthy parents with. Two, a face to woo the daughters of senior cadre friends of the family. Three, a face to order the services of a whore at the Shanghai Moon Club on the Zhaujiabang Road.”
Anger welling.
“Four, a face to hold down a whore as her throat is slit like a vanilla pod as you rape her. A special feeling is it, Comrade PLA, raping a young woman who is in the very act of dying? Surely you remember that face, Comrade Officer?”
Hot, spicy anger spilling over.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, but it is me in that photograph. Officer Huan of the People’s Liberation Army. Are you satisfied?”
“No, Officer Huan, I am not completely satisfied. But I soon will be. Now sit. Sit before I break your fucking legs and make you sit.”
Into a manilla file, prints, charge sheets.
“I am formally charging the three of you with involvement in the murder of an as yet unknown female perpetrated at the site of the New National Stadium from where these images were obtained.”
Moving to the reel to reel tape recorder the Senior Investigator.
“I am also investigating your possible involvement in the murders of PSB Comrade Detective Di and Deputy Detective Tan at the Shanghai Yu Yuan Import Export warehouse.”
Piao looking at each officer in turn.
“In due course a state defence advocate will be assigned to your case.”
Three steps and Piao had left the interview room. Stopping only once, briefly. Looking back into the room through the small section of two-way glass. Between the three of them an argument starting. Recriminations. Threats. But not listening to words, the Senior Investigator, just noting the body language. The second of the three, Officer Tsung, nervous eyes, always a good sign. Years of experience can pick out the most rosy, the most juicy red apple from when it is just mere apple blossom, Piao had been told as a child.
Yes, he would watch Officer Tsung.
*
Five minutes.
A hurriedly drunk mug of tea tasting of the tin pot that it was brewed in. As he drank, watching the old tong zhi, Ow-Yang, busy himself. Fingers buried in amongst the intestinal wiring of a critically sick computer.
Dialling the number etched in biro onto his palm. The telephone number that the Big Man had given him. A cousin of a cousin’s cousin. The telephone answered within a few rings.
“Ni nar.”
“Detective Yaobang, I wish to …”
With a clatter, the receiver thrown down. At the other end of the line, amputated shouts, a shout back. Footsteps, heavy and slow.
“Boss, everything okay?”
“How did you know it was me telephoning?”
A laugh, mouth full. Almost smelling the drizzled garlic on the Big Man’s lips and tasting the burn of chilli on his tongue.
“I’ve got a good secretary, Boss. Didn’t you notice. So, what do you want?”
“Checking that you got there without incident, that it went well.”
Piao finding the next words strangely difficult. Their shape not seeming to fit his mouth.
“Checking if she is safe, the girl. Lan Li.”
“Sure, Boss. Sure. She is well and she is safe.”
“Good, good. I just wanted to check. I will go now.”
“Boss?”
Playfulness in the words spilling from a mouth full with half-masticated noodles.
“Boss, why is it you never call to check if I’m fucking safe?”
Not bothering to answer, even if he could. Returning the handset to the cradle. Making more tea. Filing more papers. But still the realisation around the inside of his head as a bee in a bottle. The realisation that he had never called to ask if anyone was safe before, just her, the girl, Lan Li.
*
Interview room four.
A great deal in a face, but not in this one. Human passions so like atmospheric conditions. Six passions: love and hate, contentment and anger, sadness and joy. Six atmospheric conditions: cold and heat, rain and sunshine, darkness and light.
One face, atmosphereless, impassive.
Comrade Colonel Zhong Qi of the People’s Liberation Army sat in the far corner of the large interview room, his eyes fixed upon the white stained wall.
Piao entered the room. Six strides to the table. Reaching for the worn chrome switch of the reel to reel and flicking it on. A
full minute before he spoke. Just the sound of the tape revolving onto tape.
“Senior Investigator Sun Piao of the Public Security Bureau Homicide Squad interviewing Comrade Colonel Zhong Qi of the Shanghai Kan Shou Jingbei Si Ling Bu. The date is the 21st of February. The time is …”
Checking his watch.
“Around 11.30 a.m.”
“The time is exactly 11.42 a.m.”
Piao pulling his cuff across his watch. Snub-nosed base metal rudely staring from the thin yellow metal masquerading as gold.
“Thank you, Comrade Qi. At least you PLA are useful for something.”
A slight smile from the comrade, but his eyes fixed on a distant agenda. Reading from the charge sheets the Senior Investigator. Silence so deep, so commanding, making his words feel brittle.
“Comrade Colonel Zhong Qi, of the People’s Liberation Army, I am obliged to repeat the charges against you. Comrade Colonel you are charged with involvement in the murders of Comrade Detective Di and Deputy Detective Tan of the PSB at the Shanghai Yu Yuan Import Export warehouse.”
A bored gaze at his watch on his wrist, the tai zi.
“You are also charged with involvement in the murder of an un-named female comrade at the construction site of the New National Stadium. There may well be additional charges added once our investigations are complete.”
Silence as oppressive as a premature winter.
“I must also inform you that your fellow officers, Tsung, Ang and Huan, have already confessed.”
Qi laughing.
“Have confessed their name, rank and number, no doubt. I will not fall for that old trick. Now shall we just get this farce over.”
“Your status, Comrade Colonel, is such that the Party will feel obliged to make an example of you. A warning to other cadre who would commit such crimes. It will be a short trial. They always are. Few words, swift justice. The journey will be short also to the mound of sandbags. A low mound of sandbags, of course. The public must be allowed to see you kneeling. They will want to see the moment that the bullet leaves the rifle. The swirl of blue-grey smoke. And, of course, the blood running into the sawdust.”
Laughter from the tai zi Colonel. The kind of laughter that you would remember, but wish to forget. Tapping his watch.
