Citizen One

by Andy Oakes

  Thunder. Lightning. 3 miles. The city, jolting, shivering, as if caught in the teeth of a fever. Illuminated, beyond the inlet, a high wire fence gleaming in the light. Where once rice grew from soil bathed in sweat, in tears … a vast building site for the new road bridge servicing the spike of Pudong’s cloud belly-scrapers.

  Trying to run, the fence rearing up to meet him. Piao climbing, slipping down its other side, forcing himself to run through the deep mud. The pain in his ankle, deeper. Only just making the concrete apron of the bridge.

  Encased in steel, running on steel; the bridges curve taking him up, over the Huangpu’s edge. Looking back in cut-throat shadow, the PSB gaining with each stride. Chasing over his blood.

  Thunder. Lightning. 1 mile. As if running on light. Their shouts and curses, over his shoulder their faces, and on the far bank the colour of electric light through the rain. Moving onto the bridge from the opposite side, the gleaming epaulettes and shiny booted footfalls.

  The storm upon him. Thunder, lightning, now directly overhead. Pa ma-fan. The city rising and falling like ribs over lungs. The Huangpu only defined by the bracelet streams of traffic along its smooth thighed flanks. Watching, from the corners of his eyes, as the olive uniforms pressed forward. Through them, larger epaulettes, the flamboyant crest and peaked hat of the tong zhi, Xin. Words from his lips, but not hearing them. Just the rain, the river, the darkness, and him. Not even seeing them press forward as he climbed the parapet. Their hands reaching, grasping for him. An instant, just an instant, feeling the rough steel of the riveted girders under his feet. Balancing on aching heels, his toes into space. An emptiness filling him, in his whole life only experienced just a few times before, and for just a few minutes; but every second of those minutes remembered.

  Eyes to the point where the sky met the river in an invisible kiss, and then without thought, tumbling. Against cityscape, against the raven river, a black scratch, accelerating. Nothing solid. Nothing with texture, and that spoke of a life that Piao knew.

  They say that before you die, life passes, parades before you. It does not. All that you were, had been, could be, receding into itself. Dark water down a dark plug-hole. Imploding, into a single and solitary number. That number, 0.

  *

  Comrade Chief Officer Xin craned his neck over the parapet. Far below, black waters blushing a lighter black. Watching until the river’s roll resumed its uninterrupted course. Scanning the dark Huangpu for the cork to bob to the surface. Nothing. In an act of finality, spitting to the river, watching its dribbled fall until it was lost to sable.

  Yun unfurled a large black cloud of an umbrella to protect the Comrade Chief Officer’s uniform.

  “The height of this bridge?”

  “It is 8,346 metres long, including the road entrances and cost 820 million yuan to build, Comrade Chief Officer, Sir.”

  Unable to detach his eyes from the river, the tong zhi.

  “I asked for the height of the bridge. The fall to the river from this point?”

  “Sorry, Comrade Chief Officer. It is 46 metres, Comrade Chief Officer.”

  “And cold I would imagine.”

  “At this time of the year, freezing, Comrade Chief Officer. Nothing could survive in the Huangpu’s waters at such a low temperature.”

  Xin took the bone handle of the umbrella and marched with energy through the line of sodden olive uniforms, towards the comfort of the Red Flag.

  “Let us hope so for your sake, Officer Yun. Yes, let us hope so.”

  Chapter 52

  One week later …

  “An acceptable apartment for a hero, I suppose.”

  The Big Man packing two cardboard boxes. One for personal belongings; clothes, photographs. Another box for the fen-chu; a tick list of those items that go with the position of Senior Investigator.

  “He was just a good man, not a fucking hero.”

  Citizen One’s shadow eclipsing documents of authority, a PSB tunic, awards, medals, commendations, found in a bottom drawer along with holed socks.

  “An acceptable apartment for a good man.”

  Staring out of the window, the old tong zhi. Many years, too many, since he had watched clothes drying in a long.

  “They have still not found his body, even after this time?”

  A shake of the head. Yaobang wrapping framed photographs in worn shirts.

  “The Huangpu is a powerful river, sometimes it never gives up its dead.”

  Wrapping a pistol in a pair of pants. A brace of medals inside of a sock.

  “Anyway, better not to have a body. To everyone else he’s a murderer. Who would allow us to cremate or bury a fucking murderer? Dao-mei.”

  “Yes, dao-mei. But we know better, Deputy. And so we have an obligation to continue with his work.”

  The tong zhi kneeling with effort and helping to wrap, in shirts long past their best, certificates of merit, letters of commendation.

  “Speaking of which, the CD-Rom that your Senior Investigator gave to me, I have studied it. The data upon it, you still intend to use?”

  A nod.

  “May I ask how, Deputy?”

  A shake of the head.

  “May I ask when?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “You are working to instructions and a timetable that your Senior Investigator gave to you?”

  A nod.

  “It would help to know when this tidal wave will occur, Deputy Yaobang. It would be best for me to prepare before the flood waters rise to my neck, if I am to be of help to you, and to realise the vision that your Senior Investigator and I shared.”

  The Big Man sealing a box. A life now encompassed by cardboard and adhesive tape.

  “Sixty days.”

  “Sixty days …”

  Watching as the Deputy folded a PSB dress uniform into the other box.

  “Sixty days from now, or from when …”

  “Sixty days from …”

  Turning away, the Big Man, his stained cuff covering his eyes.

  “From when the boss fucking died.”

  “Deputy Yaobang, your Senior Investigator, he had very deep pockets, providing much that we can use against this tai zi and the plague that are the princelings. However, we do not wish to cut off the hand whilst manicuring the nails, do we?”

  Shaking his head, Yaobang.

  “I am a simple man, Comrade Citizen One …”

  Holding up his hands to the tong zhi’s face.

  “See, the dirt of peasantry still under my nails. Cut the words that politicians use and tell me what you fucking want?”

  Smiling, the old comrade.

  “I can see that I have lived amongst Politburo members for too long, Deputy, I will choose my words more carefully. There is some data that I would like removed from the CD-Rom that your Senior Investigator gave to me. It is data that is damaging to Comrade Qi, but which could damage our People’s Republic even more deeply and irreversibly.”

  This time holding his hands up to the Big Man’s face.

  “I too come from peasant stock, Comrade Deputy. The soil of our land runs through my very veins, as does a deep love for our country and the Communist Party that I have now served for more years than I care to remember. I simply cannot be an accomplice to an action that will cause our great nation so much harm.”

  Standing, pacing, his arms in passionate gesticulations.

  “I do not wish to barter over this, Deputy Yaobang, and I do not wish to dishonour the memory of your fine Senior Investigator Piao by discussing this matter. But unless this data is removed from the CD-Rom, I cannot see that I can support you, protect you, and bring this tai zi, Qi, to the harsh justice that he so rightly deserves.”

  Sealing the second box, the Big Man. A life stowed away in two neat rectangular containers.

  “What is it that you want removed from the CD-Rom that is so damaging to our People’s Republic, Citizen One?”

  Staring out of the window, the old tong zhi
. A woman gathering in her washing. Peasant stock, you could always tell, strong thighs and firm of buttock.

  “Golden Rice.”

  Helping the Big Man carry the sealed boxes into the small hallway.

  “I want every reference to Golden Rice removed, and that includes the scientists’ report and all formal records relating to it, Comrade Deputy.”

  Smiling.

  “The other evidence is quite enough to achieve the result that we all want.”

  Chapter 53

  Article 41 of the Chinese Criminal Code states that anyone sentenced for a crime, and who is fit and able to work, ‘shall undergo reform through labour’ … lao gai.

  Do not be a ‘counterrevolutionary element’. One who flows against the tide of the Party, the government. One who disturbs the social order. One who derides the progress of the People’s Republic. One who speaks too loudly criticisms of the leadership. Lao gai will embrace you.

  Do not ‘associate’ with those who commit crime: robbery, rape, arson. Association, in itself, enough to mark you out. Lao gai will welcome you.

  Do not ‘associate’ with prostitutes, migrants, those who steal and cheat, those who refuse to reform, those who disturb the public order. Lao gai will be your mistress.

  Do not be one who refuses to work, although healthy and strong. And when in work, do not be one who hinders production. Do not be one who uses drugs. Or one who is homeless. Lao gai will be your new home.

  *

  Lao gai, country within a country. 20 million ‘criminals’ filling its estimated 1,100 ‘reform through labour’ camps, none of whom have needed to go through any judicial process. The police agencies with total power to impose a sentence upon you, without you having any right to legal representation. You may appeal against your sentence, but the very challenge against the injustice perpetrated against you is viewed in the People’s Court as evidence of your lack of amenability to re-education. Such a challenge inviting a harsher sentence, and even when your sentence has been completed, the weeks, months, crossed off on the wall of your cell, there is no certainty of release.

  20 million incarcerated citizens, larger than the workforce of Spain and almost equal to that of France. A workforce that is unpaid, that is fed the cheapest food and rudimentarily clothed, that has no holidays, healthcare, legal or political rights. But a workforce that creates much wealth, that plays an important part in the national economy. In 1999 financial analysts estimated that just 99 known lao gai had annual sales of over $842 million. These sales coming from a plethora of goods made for the domestic market and for export, toys, steel, cars, textiles, clothing, tea.

  Lao gai is a country within a country. You will labour for 12 to 16 hours a day, seven days a week without holidays or rest days, working day and night without sleep. You will work in hazardous conditions. Mines, where with basic tools you will rip minerals from the bedrock. Tin, coal, graphite, asbestos. You will work in foundries, brickworks, on production lines, and only if you look as if you are dying will you receive medical help. If you should die, for whatever reason, you will be cremated that same day. The reason for your death as hidden as the reason for your arrival at lao gai.

  Chapter 54

  KU-BAI YU-SHENG … ‘ALIVE IN THE BITTER SEA’.

  Memories of memories, in unconsciousness, as blunt as pebbles on a beach smoothed by a thousand ebbs and flows of tides.

  Rough, strong hands upon him, pulling him from water in to the air. A needle, mercury bright, stabbed into an arm. Half familiar voices speaking un-remembered words. The chill of a vast concrete hanger. A judge, in a PLA uniform mouthing rehearsed words in brief orchestrated minutes. Another needle into another arm. A brief car journey, then a lengthy helicopter flight, before another brief car journey.

  Memories of memories, as blunt as water smoothed pebbles on a beach.

  *

  “Where am I ?”

  In the corner, an old man, taut skin over sharp bones. Blinking.

  “Where am I ?”

  Blinking again the old papa, before turning away from Piao. Inner sight to a more comforting horizon.

  “Facility–4, boy. Where else?”

  Words, barely audible above the wind, hot, sharp and spicy; blowing red dust plumes into a scarred sky.

  A smile. Piao struggling to hold unconsciousness at bay. Tether it in place, until his own words, weakly-fashioned, passed between his dry lips.

  “I knew that our fates would cross, Righteous Mountain. I knew.”

  *

  Lao Gai Facility–4, Righteous Mountain. The ‘Two Rice Bowls’, Jiangxi Province.

  The day, it is dying. You witness it in the sun’s blood orange fall, the shadow’s leggy stance. The guards’ obscenely gestured jokes as to what they intend to do to the crimson lipped yeh-jis in the village beyond the long road that you will never walk down.

  The day is dying, and so are you. You witness it in the sickness that surrounds your heart, the fever that holds your brain in its grasp. You witness it in the fact that you cannot recall a life beyond where you now labour, that you cannot now remember the long that you lived in for fifteen years, just the bright wired perimeters of this hell. And the loosely-linked chains of prisoners, beaten from the fields to the pot-holed tarmac road, still sticky from the sun’s hot breath.

  Every inch of this place, now tattooed within you, and in the welt’s stings across your shoulders. The names that you have given to each accommodation block. Mao, Xiaoping, Zhou Enlai. Corrugated roofed. Burning, grilling you in midday’s onslaught. Chilling, freezing you in midnight’s open-handed slap.

  Each mark on every brick of your cell. The beetle, black silk-backed, that manoeuvres across the floor and into your waiting hand every night. The footprint of a labourer’s boot who built this place, in the concrete cold floor … your fingers tracing each free run of its ridged sole. Each as intimately known as a lover’s lips. Every inch of this place known, except for the low building separated from the rest of the complex. The furthest building always in shadow, from which without even being told, eyes are always averted.

  *

  “Old man. Old man …”

  Asleep. The old papa’s mouth open, as a cave. His few teeth like stalactites. Asleep, but Piao, lao gai number F8932976886, asking anyway. Perhaps because a part of him not wanting an answer.

  “The building. The low building. What is it ?”

  And no answer coming. The black silky-back beetle crawling to freedom from the bars of his fingers as sleep ensnares.

  Freedom …

  *

  A morning as all others. Woken to a beating, the bamboo cane across the soles of your feet. Scrapings of rice from the bottom of the pot. Water the colour and taste of rust.

  A morning as all others. A wash, naked under the stand-pipes, as the guards mock your body and your manhood.

  “Your women, better off without such small cocks.”

  Trying to cover yourself, but all that you are and have ever been, open to their scrutiny and jibes.

  Duty rotas read aloud. Prisoners falling, beaten into line. Marching through dust to the paddy beyond the low building. A smile from the old man. Paddy water will have grasses growing beside it that can be eaten, and carp within its mud-clouded waters, common and mirror carp. Silver shrug as rough hands reach out to grab it, snag it from its world. Almost tasting its flesh. Piao smiling back.

  A morning as all others. Hours bent, until unable to straighten yourself. The sun’s merciless ride across your shoulders until sweat running from the tip of your nose and into greater body of the paddy water, until there was none left to drip.

  And from a distant billet a chain of prisoners with no energy to run or to escape. No will, just marching, dead-eyed. All with the same shirt sleeve rolled up past the elbow. From the low building in sickly shadow, double doors opening. Inside, just visible, pristine, white-coated personnel, spectacles glinting in the white sun. The chain of prisoners lost to sight. Double doors
pulled shut. Locked. Red dust falling back to red dust.

  From the corner of cracked, dry lips.

  “What is this place, old man? What is it?”

  Looking away, the papa, a life spent watching for shadows. Fearing the hand on the shoulder, the knock on midnight’s door.

  “It is our shame.”

  “But what shame? Our People’s Republic, it has many.”

  Paddy water falling to olive, with the eclipsing shadows of the lao gai guards. And through the corner of his lips, a whisper.

  “Tonight, tonight we eat carp.”

  Smiling as he pointed to his open shirt. Mirror-scaled fish-tail of a carp slipping inside the front of his trousers.

  “And tonight, I tell you of our greatest shame.”

  *

  The candle was hidden behind a hollowed out half-brick in the wall. Matches slipped between the flaking concrete of the sleeping plinth and its steel foundations. A strip of rusty steel mesh, under a loose floor tile. Dull-eyed stare … the carp gutted with teeth and bare fingers. What could not be eaten, let loose from the barred window. By morning the lean rats would leave no evidence.

  Linen jacket wedged into the gap between floor and cell door would mask the smells of cooking. Smells to remind you of a home that you once had and of a life once lived. The old man pulling small slivers of anaemic carp flesh from the ivory bone and placing the pieces on the steel mesh over the burning candle. Across the carp fine shoots of river grass. Placed precisely, gently, as if stroking a young girl’s hair.

  “The art is in cooking the flesh completely through. A dirty fish the carp. It feeds on slime, shit.”

  Gently prodding the fish.

  “But not to cook it too much.”

  Gently manoeuvring the candle.

  “Things have a way of telling you that they are ready. Like a woman. “See?”