A Killing Air

by Nigel Price

  The gnashing cogs in Brannigan’s head were virtually audible. Struggling for that winning remark. That cutting jibe.

  “So.”

  That was the best he could summon. His intelligence had laboured hard and produced ‘So’. Somehow he managed to garrison it thickly with smut. Then, “Off to bed?”

  Harry opened his mouth to retort but was beaten to it.

  “Come, mister. You paying by the hour. Wasting time. Wasting money.” Lisa shoved past Brannigan, tugging Harry after her. Brannigan and his acolytes spilled from the lift agog. Lisa stabbed at the topmost button to get the lift on its way, leaving Harry to refine it with a quick stab for the correct floor. The doors closed. Harry’s last sight was of The Three Amigos taking in the spectacle of Lisa wrapped around him, her face pressing urgently into his.

  The doors shut. The ascent began. Gently he peeled her limbs from him. She was convulsed in fits of giggles. “Your friends?”

  “Thanks for that,” he said heavily. “Not really. They’re idiots.”

  “They looked like it. Who’s the one who looks like an ox?” She mimicked an ox. Pursed lips, puffed-out cheeks. More Louis Armstrong.

  “Jim Brannigan.”

  “Brannigan,” she repeated, testing the name on her tongue like wine and finding it corked. “And his babies?”

  “David and Neville.”

  She erupted in squeals of laughter that set the whole lift rocking. Harry found himself laughing too. He hadn’t laughed like this for an age. He regarded Lisa in a new light. Without quite understanding why.

  They reached his floor and went down the corridor to his room. He sliced the key card through the mechanism and went inside. He turned on the light. Took off his jacket and tossed it across the bed. At the desk, his laptop blinked at him in stand-by like a co-conspirator. Aye aye, guvnor.

  Harry thumbed it into life, pulled up a chair and sat down. Lisa came and perched beside him. “There’s a bottle of Scotch on the dresser,” he said, pointing. She fetched it together with two glasses from the bathroom. She took off the cap and sniffed. Screwed up her face. Poured all the same. She set down a glass at his side and put her own to her lips.

  “Bruichladdich,” Harry said.

  “Cheers to you too,” she replied.

  Harry smiled.

  He plugged in the memory stick. Clicked on it and sat back. Nothing. He looked sideways at Lisa and raised his eyebrows. She looked down at him and raised hers. Check. They grinned.

  She shoved him aside, took control of the touchpad and tried it herself. Same result. Simultaneously they sighed. Noted. Grinned again.

  Then a sobering. The image of a woman’s desperation and death swept into the room and took hold of the atmosphere. They both felt the energy seep from their encounter. Suddenly it was no longer quite such fun.

  “What now?” Harry asked.

  Lisa stared into space. “Perhaps we need to go to Chengde,” she remarked, mostly to herself. Though not entirely. Her speech was slurred.

  “We?”

  She looked at him as if he was a simpleton. “You. And. Me,” she enunciated.

  “I,” Harry corrected.

  “Aye?”

  “You. And. I,” Harry chanted.

  She threw up her hands. “English. Barbaric language. The language of pirates and opium dealers.”

  It was the taste of the Bruichladdich that struck Harry first. Close behind was the epiphany that he was tasting it from her lips which were pressed hard against his. The fierceness and the penetrating depth. Foremost in his mind was the question: How much Tsingtao did this girl drink? Pushing that quickly aside was the silent expression of wonderment: This is one hell of a woman.

  Which is when he understood that he would indeed travel to Chengde. Though he had not the slightest idea why.

  Twelve

  Morning. It dawns every day. Always has done. Always will. Until the Sun expands at the end of its long, spinning rigmarole to become a red giant in five billion years. Even then. Just before it fries the Earth and all who sail in her. Morning. One last time.

  Harry yawned and stretched. Yawned again. He was on the sofa. Puzzled. He tensed and looked across to where he was supposed to be. The bed was occupied. The duvet scrunched and screwed to cocoon a figure inside. Someone ready to butterfly. Lisa Tang. Journalist. Sort of.

  Harry let his body go limp. Let gravity take it where it willed. Into all the sofa’s nooks, crannies and crevices. His breath with it. What had he agreed to? Chengde. Why on earth? He ran fingers through his stubbly hair. Scratched scalp with nails. Felt and heard them rasp. Telling him he was alive. Still. And in China.

  He could so easily get out. Get away. To wherever. Anywhere. Just not here. This place where police beat an old woman and drove her to death. How could it serve any purpose of his to approach one inch closer to that mess? That viciousness?

  He had dreamed in the night. Confronting authority. Sitting exams for which he hadn’t prepared. Missing trains and aeroplanes. Images of civil war, an inner conflict of opposites. All the usual old stuff. Dull, so dull. He wondered if his dreams would ever have anything to tell him that he didn’t already know. They were like endlessly repeating phone messages from a cold-call salesman, trying to flog him something he simply didn’t want and never would.

  Having presented his address, today he was to have been a spectator at the conference. Nothing required of him but to listen and grin and grunt and exist. Then another day or two of the same, followed by the insincere handshakes at the end of it all, the forced pleasantries and artificial bonhomie, then exit to the airport and away to yet more countries and meetings and deals and …

  He screwed his eyes tight. It was all becoming too burdensome. Chengde. Why the hell not? Into the valley of death rode the six hundred. Had they too been bored? Nothing else to venture? Nothing else to gain? Not the troopers, of course. They were just blindly trusting their leaders, poor, silly buggers. But those leaders themselves? Had they achieved all the Earth held for them, except death? One final adventure? It might well have been so. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder’d.

  Harry rolled onto his side and propelled himself upright. The room had come equipped with a kettle. He filled it from the bathroom tap and set it to boil. There was a cafetière on the sideboard and, in the drawer, a packet of coffee. He tore open the top and started to brew. With hot water added, the smell had the intended effect. The duvet cocoon stirred. Harry’s Golden Fleece. Medea poked out her nose, testing the air like a badger from its sett.

  “Coffee,” she intoned blearily.

  “Coffee,” Harry affirmed. Communication was established. Re-entry had been successful. The capsule Lisa Tang was headed safely back to Earth, parachutes deployed.

  Her head emerged, eyes scrunched against the daylight. From her expression Harry could tell that it hurt. She emitted a long, low growl.

  “That’s seafood for you,” Harry said. “The revenge of the sozzled crustaceans.”

  Her eyes swivelled to focus on his face. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.” A look of consternation materialised as she took in her surroundings. She lifted the duvet and checked underneath. Still fully clothed. Relief. Then more alarm. “Did we …?”

  Harry slowly depressed the plunger crushing the coffee grounds. He beamed. “You were terrific.”

  She scrutinised his face for a second then relaxed, sitting up. “Yeah yeah.”

  He filled two mugs. “Milk and sugar?”

  “Black.”

  He passed her a mug then put milk in his own and tested it. Hot. “What are we going to do?”

  “We have to go to Chengde. You will come?”

  He nodded. “I suppose so.”

  “Can you? I mean, what about flights and that?”

  “I’m pretty much my own boss. I can change my flight. But don’t you think that perhaps you should let this whole thing drop?” He was genuinely puzzled. �
�I understand that you feel you owe the woman, but do you really? If it’s going to get you into trouble with the police and God knows who else?”

  From her look Harry realised that she had more to divulge. He sat opposite and watched her, giving her time to speak.

  “My boss,” she began. “Hans Zhang. He started our website. He is always in trouble with the police. It is him who gave me this assignment. I have to do it if I want to stay with the organisation.”

  Harry processed this. “Okay. One question though. Why don’t you get an ordinary job? Why this?”

  She sighed. “Long story. This interests me. It is important.” She looked out of the window. Visibility was three hundred yards. “We will all die if China doesn’t change.” She pointed. “That matters.”

  “Sure, so do a story on pollution, on car emissions, on factories. Let the old woman go.”

  “Hans wants me to see where it leads. He thinks it is probably something about water or air in her village. It is a story I have to do.” She looked at him. “You don’t have to though.”

  “I know,” Harry answered. “But perhaps I want to come along for the ride. Besides, I’ve never been to Chengde. A day or two out there might be a nice change.”

  “Won’t your friends ask questions? You know, the ox and his babies?” She did her Louis Armstrong puffed-cheeks impression.

  “They’re not my friends. It’s none of their business. I do what I like.” If only, he reflected. Delaney had him on a very loose leash, but it was nonetheless a leash. He wanted to help the girl though. And to find out the old woman’s story too. Perhaps it was important, as Lisa said. China’s problems might not be any of his business, but the moment he had stepped into the underpass and punched out the two undercover cops, he had made this story his business. Somehow he too felt he owed the old woman something. Just like Lisa. Yan Yajun was reaching out from beyond whatever grave they had dumped her in, and was pulling the strings that entangled both he and the girl sitting in front of him.

  “Okay,” she said, draining her mug in a series of noisy slurps. “Then we should get going. Besides, it will be good to be out of Beijing before the National Congress starts.”

  Harry knew about this. The conference organisers had made it clear that all delegates should be clear of the city before the Chinese Communist Party held its grand thrash that happened every five years. Once that started, the city would go into security lock-down. All the hotels would be chock-full of Chinese delegates from every corner of China. Strategic policy matters would be resolved, the party’s direction confirmed for the forthcoming five-year cycle. Of course, everything of real importance would have been decided already behind closed doors. The Congress in the Great Hall of the People would just be a rubber stamp affair. Acres of smiling faces and clapping hands. Websites like the one Lisa worked for would be suppressed or shut down for the duration, all forms of likely protest snipped shut. Then, once the whole jamboree was over, ‘freedom’ would be allowed to emerge again like a fragile bud opening after heavy rain, though sternly monitored, as it always was.

  “What’s the best way to get there?” Harry asked.

  “Bus. Train takes too long and it’s too close to bother with planes. Taxi too expensive. So bus.”

  “How far is it?”

  She thought. “About two hundred kilometres? It’s about three or four hours on the bus. We take the Jingcheng Highway.”

  Harry got up and went to the window. In the distance he could hear the sound of a plane landing at the nearby airport. There was the low rumble of the engines, followed by the sudden surge as the pilots used reverse thrust to slow the aircraft. A moment later he heard one taking off. It would be the start of another busy day out there. Pilots landing and taking off nearly blind. Thoughts of his disaster planning exercise came briefly to mind. He pushed them away. Plenty of time for that.

  “When do we go?”

  “This afternoon,” Lisa answered. “Is that okay for you?”

  Harry nodded. “From?”

  “The bus station in Chaoyang. There are others with buses to Chengde, but Chaoyang will be easiest for you to find. I will meet you there. I need to go home and get some things. Also to speak to Hans. Tell him what we are doing.”

  “Have you told him about me?”

  “I had to. To explain what happened to Mrs Yan. He doesn’t know your name though.”

  Harry nodded. “Will you tell him now?”

  She thought about it. “Not sure. Why not?”

  “It’s just that the fewer people knowing it was me who punched out the two policemen, the happier I’d be.”

  She smiled. “Okay. Then I won’t. You will remain my source.” She said it with the relish of a newcomer to the business. All fun and intrigue.

  They arranged the time and place for their rendezvous. Lisa got up, straightened her clothes, brushed her hair and went to the door. “Until later,” she said, one slim hand on the door knob. Harry nodded and she left.

  When he was alone, he fired up his laptop and checked the location of the Chaoyang bus station. He would take a taxi there. He had a holdall which would do for a couple of nights away. He could check out of his room and leave his suitcase and conference stuff with the concierge downstairs. With luck he could slip away unnoticed.

  Of course that wasn’t how it worked out. Brannigan again. The man was like dandruff. Brush it off and it just keeps coming back. Harry was standing by the reception desk checking out, his suitcase at his feet.

  “My case will need storing for a few days,” he explained to the clerk. “I’m going back up to my room now but will drop off the key card when I leave.” He checked his watch. “In a couple of hours.”

  The man looked uncertain. “The hotel is fully booked next week for the National Congress.”

  “I understand,” Harry answered. “I’ll be out of the way by then. I won’t need a room. Just to collect my case.”

  And then Brannigan. That giveaway chortle. “You sly dog. Sleep well, did you?”

  Harry drew breath. A smile was in order. “Morning, Jim. Yes thanks. You?”

  More chortling. “Quieter than you, I bet. Nice little piece though. Where’d you pick her up? Or did she pick you up? There were a couple of hookers hanging round the bar the other night. Till security saw them off.”

  Harry was about to say that she wasn’t a hooker, but realised it would all be a lot simpler if he just went with the flow. Fewer questions. Just the anvil-weighted Brannigan humour to contend with. “I confess I could do with an hour or two’s catch-up. Dog tired.” He winked. Brannigan slapped him on the back which made Harry want to hit him.

  “You do realise that some of them are government plants? Trying to suss out what we’re up to.”

  “If you say so, Jim.”

  “It’s true.” He noticed the case. “You off? Conference has got another two days to run. Nipping off early?”

  Harry thought quickly. Always best to stick as close to a truth as possible. “No. Just leaving my bag here for a couple of days. Got a lead. Can’t say more.” He saw Brannigan’s brain churning. Brow furrowed. “Shanghai. I’m getting the train down there. Thought about flying but I haven’t taken the train before so thought I’d give it a go.”

  “The high speed one that keeps coming off the rails and killing hundreds?”

  Harry smiled. “That’s the one.”

  “Don’t suppose you’ll tell me who you’re meeting?”

  “Jim, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Fair enough. What about Alderton’s offer? Have you got an answer for me yet?”

  “At conference end,” Harry answered quickly. “I’ll give you a call.”

  “Do, Harry. The old man’s already pestering me.”

  “Tell him to go fuck himself,” Harry said nicely.

  Brannigan smiled. “Yeah, that would be a really good idea.” He was evaluating Harry, not believing a word he was saying but knowing it would be pointless to pursue the iss
ue. They shook hands. “Good luck in Shanghai,” he said. Harry ignored the knowing smile. “If you accept our offer I suppose the business will come our way in any case.”

  “Absolutely,” Harry replied. “What could possibly go wrong?”

  Thirteen

  Sihui bus station in Chaoyang district was a riot of concrete like most of the city. Greyness ruled. A sheen of dust blanketed everything. Whether sand from the Gobi desert to the far north, or pollutants from a myriad belching factory chimneys ringing the city, it was the great equaliser, a carpet for rich and poor alike, the living and the dead.

  The taxi from the hotel drew up alongside a broken kerb stone and Harry got out, lugging his holdall after him. He paid the driver and watched him drive off. For a moment he was assaulted by thoughts of the hotel he had left a short while before. The bar, restaurants, gym. The soft chairs in the conference auditorium, the …

  Lisa hailed him. He looked up and saw her. She was wrapped in a puffy lime green jacket, orange trousers, with a large pink rucksack on her back. Elsewhere the colour coordination was no better. She was waving enthusiastically, straight arm aloft going from left to right like a metronome. She came up to him. Saw his expression directed at her rucksack. “What?”

  “Not exactly Special Forces, is it?” Harry said.

  She grinned and slapped his arm playfully. “If the cap fits, wear it,” she replied. Harry decided not to take issue with the context of her chosen aphorism. He sort of got what she meant.

  “I’ve got tickets,” she said, waving them as proof. “You owe me eighty Yuan.” Harry started to fumble in his jacket. She pushed his hand away. “Later,” she chided.

  “Did you speak to the boss?”

  “Hans? Yes.”

  “And he agrees with what you’re doing?”

  “Of course. He gave me the name of a friend of his who might be able to help us there.”

  “And he knows I’m going with you?”

  “Yes. He was glad. I think he thinks you will look after me.” She burst out laughing. Harry didn’t like to point out that he had done exactly that the previous evening outside the restaurant. Then again, if he hadn’t been with her she probably wouldn’t have been attacked in the first place. She continued, “He thinks that sometimes it can also be useful to have a foreigner involved. The authorities have to tread more softly.”