A Killing Air

by Nigel Price

  Harry got the rich sarcasm. His friend didn’t. The miles rolled past. The car sped towards the capital as evening descended.

  Forty Two

  Harry and Lisa stood in the hallway taking stock of their new accommodation. David Lin came in behind them and closed the door. He tossed the car keys onto a sideboard.

  “Not much but it’s home. Until I return to Shanghai.”

  “Does it belong to the airport?” Harry asked.

  Lin smiled. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Not at all,” Harry lied badly. “It looks great. You’ve made it really … homely. Comfortable.”

  “Quit while you’re ahead, Harry. Not that you are.”

  He gave them a whirlwind tour of the six rooms. Sitting-dining room. Kitchen. Bathroom-shower. Main bedroom. Spare bedroom. Study. Like Harry’s own study, Lin’s resembled Tutankhamun’s tomb after the robbers had finished ransacking it and had flung back in everything not worth taking.

  Lin blushed at his guests. “Not sure how you want to organise the sleeping arrangements,” he said awkwardly. “There’s more bedding in the cupboard in my room.”

  “I’ll take the sofa,” Harry said quickly. “Lisa can have the spare room.”

  “Er … there isn’t a sofa,” Lisa replied, taking in the one big sitting room.

  Harry followed Lin into the main bedroom and fished a spare duvet out of the cupboard. “Not a problem. I’ll put some cushions on the floor. I’ll be fine.”

  Lin showed them food in the kitchen, checked they were comfortable with the tiny handful of amenities, then went to the front door. “Wish me luck,” he said. As an afterthought he added for Lisa, “My girlfriend Susan keeps clothes in the cupboard in the spare room. If they fit help yourself.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s helping with the organisation for the Congress. While it’s on she’s pretty much stuck in town.” He saw the concern on Lisa’s face. “Don’t worry. She isn’t about to come in. The roads are so packed every day that she stays with a friend near the Great Hall of the People for the duration. She leaves her car here too. No point having it downtown.”

  As he prepared to go Harry could see that his friend was nervous. “David, I’m so sorry—”

  Lin stopped him in mid-sentence. “You helped me once, Harry. I’m just repaying a debt.”

  With a final wave he exited the small apartment, closing the door behind him. When he had gone, Harry locked the door and fastened the snib. He went to the window and checked outside. There was a narrow balcony, more for decoration than practical use. A row of dust-covered flower pots lined the floor, half of them containing the desiccated remains of non-descript plants. If any of them had ever displayed colour, it had long been gassed to brown.

  There was no view to speak of. A car park. A block opposite. A withered tree or two. And beyond, the enveloping mist of filth choking Beijing. Harry drew grubby nets, then a pair of more substantial curtains to shut out the world.

  He turned on the light and the two of them stood in the middle of the forlorn apartment. Neither had anything but the clothes they stood in. Harry slipped off his jacket and tossed it across the back of an armchair.

  “I need a shower,” Lisa said.

  “Me too,” Harry said. Then quickly, “You go first. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  The kitchen was big enough for swinging a moderately sized cat. There was a run of fitted units on every wall, fronted in soulless white plastic laminate. The working tops were similarly functional laminated chipboard. They were decorated to persuade the user that their meals were being prepared on Italian terracotta tiles. Old gouges and a patch where a water leak had caused the chipboard to swell gave the game away.

  Harry hunted through various cupboards until he found tea bags. Jasmine. Good old David. He filled the kettle and flicked the on switch. Then mugs. One emblazoned with the logo of a freight company. The other with Hello Kitty. Harry grinned. Perfect.

  He stooped to look in the fridge and smiled again. It was amazing how much the contents of a fridge revealed about a person. David clearly had an ice cream issue. The tiny freezer compartment was crammed with small pots of about a dozen different flavours. On the shelves of the main section, there was not a great deal. Apart from beers. Tsingtao, Fosters, Carlsberg, Heineken, Tiger, Anchor, Kirin, and a couple of brands Harry hadn’t come across.

  “Wow.”

  “What was that?” a voice called from the bathroom a handful of yards away. Harry was about to explain but the power shower kicked in so he simply called back, “Nothing.”

  In a cupboard he found a loaf and from the fridge he took two of the few non-beer, non-ice cream items. Butter and honey.

  He was about to slide a couple of slices of bread into the toaster when he heard a sound. He stepped out of the kitchen and listened hard. It was coming from the bathroom. He went across to the closed door. The shower was belting out water. From under the door steam pushed into the sitting room.

  “Lisa?” He knocked lightly on the door. “Are you all right?” There was no reply. Just the shower and more steam.

  “Lisa,” he said, louder. He knocked again.

  He tried the handle. The door opened. Without looking round, he put his face to the crack. “Lisa?” Still no reply.

  He looked round the door. She was standing with her back to him. She had a towel around her, secured tightly under her armpits. She was leaning with her hands on the sink. Her image in the mirror in front of her was invisible through the thick blanket of steam obscuring it. Her bare shoulders were shaking.

  “Lisa,” Harry said softly. He stepped towards her. “It’s all right. It’s over. They’ve gone.”

  In his heart he knew that each of those three short statements could easily be deconstructed. There wasn’t really anything else to say. At least nothing that Harry could think of.

  “I’m frightened,” she said. Her voice was calm. It was a simple statement of fact. A perfectly reasonable one.

  He took a deep breath, held it, let it out. “The best thing for that is a cup of tea and something to eat,” was the only reply he could think of that wasn’t going to be a lie.

  The look she gave him said ‘Give me a break.’ But kindly. The bruises on her face made him wish he had taken the opportunity to beat the merry crap out of Miller. He hoped he would have another chance. Same with Thug Men. Perhaps he should have roasted them alive in Chau’s villa after all. He had a horrible feeling that they would all be meeting again soon enough.

  Best make the most of the present, in that case.

  “Come on,” he said. “Have that shower then we’ll eat and get some rest.”

  He left her and went back into the kitchen. A while later he heard her leave the bathroom. He popped his head round the kitchen door. Sure enough her towel-clad figure padded into the spare bedroom and pulled the door to behind her. Harry made use of the pause to use the shower himself. Slipping out of his clothes, he stepped into the stream of hot water. It felt wonderful after the exertions of the past days. He spent an age soaping himself, washing his short hair, then simply luxuriating in the jets of water until his skin tingled.

  He found a towel and dried himself. His old clothes lay beside the sink, unappealing. With the towel round his waist he went into David’s bedroom. Checking through the drawers he found clean boxers which even fitted. Then the same with socks. A clean shirt was also a luxury and an acceptable fit. Trousers were a bit more of a problem, but a pair of cargo pants which would have been baggy on David, proved a closer fit on Harry, just acceptable. At the end of the process he considered himself in a full-length mirror set in the cupboard door. He looked like a clean and ironed Indiana Jones, only without the hat, or whip, or gun, or machete, or leather flying jacket, or …

  It was fine.

  Back in the kitchen, he re-boiled the kettle and made tea. The toast followed, two slices each, all with thick butter and a ton of honey. In two trips he took it through to
the sitting room and laid it on the table. Lisa appeared. Harry stopped and stared. Just like the time she had removed her mask and faced him on the verge of the car park a million years ago. White cotton blouse, loose blue cotton trousers gathered in at the waist with a tie of the same material. Her hair was shining from the shower. She ran a strand through her fingers by way of explanation. “No dryer.”

  She saw the food and rushed to the table, snatched a piece of toast in both hands and ate it as if it was the secret of eternal life. Eyes closed, she savoured every mouthful. Harry watched her with delight. When she had eaten all of hers he slid his plate across and watched again as she ate his too.

  It wasn’t until she had finished that she noticed the empty space in front of him. She looked at the two empty plates and did some mental arithmetic. Harry burst out laughing as he saw the cogs turning.

  “I’ve eaten your supper.”

  He pushed himself to his feet and returned to the kitchen. “There’s still life in the loaf. Want some more?”

  “Yes please,” she enthused, coming in behind him. “But you eat first.”

  He was starving, so when the toaster popped out its next two slices, while she ate her fifth, he ate his first. Drenched with honey, it fired straight into his veins.

  “Feeling better?”

  Wiping her mouth with a paper towel she nodded. “I’m fine, thank you. Really I am.”

  “It was just that … in there …” Harry faltered, meaning the bathroom.

  “Everything just caught up with me.” She gave one of her great sniffs, using the paper towel to wipe her nose. It spread her with crumbs. “But I’m okay now, thank you.”

  Harry brushed the crumbs from her nose. “More?”

  She shook her head. He made himself another two slices and ate them in a few giant bites. They went back into the sitting room and sat with their jasmine tea. Harry looked at his watch. Still early. There was nothing to do but wait. Lisa got up and found the remote control for the television. She hopped through channels until she found some news. As with all the local channels it was about the National Congress. There were pictures of coach-loads of grinning delegates being disgorged in a square. Everyone was very jolly, all travelled in from the provinces to rubber stamp decisions taken by invisible power-brokers. Decisions that had pretty much already been taken.

  Then Ryder Chau was in front of them, his shiny face and even shinier hair filling the TV screen. Harry saw Lisa jump as if Chau had stepped into the room in person. She held her tea close under her nose inhaling the scent, eyes riveted to the screen, ears intent on the commentary.

  “What are they saying?” Harry asked, his Mandarin under pressure to keep up with the speed of the delivery.

  “Shush …”

  Without taking her eyes off the screen, she reached over with one hand and stroked the back of Harry’s, sorry for her abruptness.

  Eventually the report moved on. A map of the region appeared and a chirpy mannequin began to rabbit about the forthcoming weather prospects. Smog. But with the promise of a storm presently gathering over the South China Sea and heading north and west.

  Lisa let out an enormous sigh. “It was just a report about Ryder Chau arriving in the capital for the Congress. It was speaking about his projects for the peasants in Chengde and elsewhere. He spoke briefly, something about how he intended to extend the same development ideas across the country.”

  “Did it mention his promotion? Anything about the leadership?”

  She shook her head. “That’s not how it works. That won’t happen – if it’s going to – until later in the Congress. For now the leadership is preparing the ground.”

  “For what?”

  “A transfer of power. They are building him up in the eyes of the public. Gauging the reaction. Testing the water. Then, after a while, they will make the announcements. Promotion to this commission, that committee. This working party, that steering group. All leading to the big one.”

  “President.”

  “Yes. Paramount Leader.”

  “You think that’s going to happen?”

  She nodded. “Everything points to it. This is how it happens.” She turned to him. “We’re dead, Harry. If he becomes leader, we’re dead. It won’t matter what we uncover, what we expose. He’ll be beyond reach then. Nothing and no one will be able to save us.”

  Forty Three

  Sleep took its time to arrive. Lying on an arrangement of cushions on David Lin’s floor, Harry’s mind was a mess of activity. Each time he came close to lulling it to sleep, some devious thought would stick its head out of the box. Whenever that happened, Harry had to take it to the bathroom, or sing it a song, or read it a story. Anything to shut it the fuck up.

  He had to sleep. It was a desperate need. If he was going to function when light returned, if he was going to have any chance of getting himself and Lisa out of this whole bloody mess, then he had to find a way of quietening his mind and getting some good, deep sleep.

  He convulsed onto his side. Punched one of the cushions under his head. He sat up. What the hell am I doing?

  He got up and went into David’s room. He stood looking at the large, vacant bed. You idiot, Harry.

  He pulled back the duvet and slid under it. Instantly the world rearranged itself. Floor forgotten, with its lumpy cushions and draught from under the front door, he heaved a massive sigh and rolled onto his side. Bed.

  “Bed,” he said aloud, love infusing the one sweet syllable.

  There was the gentlest knock on the door. He sat up, ready to fight. Police don’t knock.

  “Yes?”

  The door squeaked open. Lisa’s face appeared. “Can I sleep in here?”

  Harry struggled free of the duvet. “Okay. I’ll go in the spare room. The sitting room floor’s crap.”

  She glided to the bed and slipped under the duvet, pulling it tight around the two of them. “I meant with you.”

  Harry stopped in mid-move. “Oh. Right.” Then, “Okay.”

  He rearranged himself, offering the lion’s share of the duvet to the newcomer. “I don’t want to be alone,” she said.

  They lay in the dark side by side like two effigies. The Knight and his Lady. Straight and stiff as stone. Staring into the rib-vault ceiling blackness of an invisible Gothic church. Hands not clasped in prayer, but clutching fistfuls of duvet tightly under chins.

  Under other circumstances he might have made a move. A sly rolling-over. A tender stroke with the fingers of one hand. But the poor girl had been through hell. Even Harry was mensch enough to realise that the last thing she needed was to be jumped on by him. So he stayed locked fast in his contemplation of eternity, staring into space.

  It came as a surprise, albeit a very pleasant one, when he felt her snuggle against him, shifting onto her side. Her face was visible in the poor light. Her eyes like those of an inquisitive mouse, wondering into his. He half felt he should offer her a slice of cheddar or a biscuit.

  The steady contemplation of her dark eyes was disconcerting. Eventually he said, “What?”

  “Do you want to have sex with me?”

  “Pardon?”

  Instantly he regretted sounding like Lady Bracknell. ‘A handbag?’

  Lisa was still as steady as stone. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

  “But after today …?”

  She shifted her position slightly. It seemed like an alternative to replying.

  He tried again. “Wouldn’t you rather rest? I mean, after all that’s happened …”

  Her question hung in the air between them like a grenade with the pin out.

  To his amazement Harry found himself saying, “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.” God what a hero. “I mean, don’t think I don’t want to, but I think you need to rest. You’re not yourself.”

  She wrestled with that. “Not myself?”

  “You’re probably confused. And in any case, if we were going to do anything like … that … it
might be nicer if it was a little less contrived.”

  “Contrived?”

  “If it happened more naturally.”

  “Oh.” She sounded more interested than disappointed or hurt. The next moment Harry felt the bed shaking ever so gently. She was laughing at him. “Okay,” she said cheerfully, turning away from him onto her other side. “Better sleep now.”

  Harry lay in the dark listening to her breathing which deepened into sleep with impressive speed. Barely three minutes later the tiniest snores were coming from the other side of the bed.

  For him though, sleep skipped daintily out of reach. He could smell the soap she had showered with. Feel the slightest movement of the duvet in time with her breathing. And the question she had put to him twice was dancing a Highland reel in his mind.

  So it was a surprise when he found himself moving through a grim urban landscape. He was in uniform again. He could feel the weight of the gun in his hands. His old SA80. The L85A2 variant. He could feel every part of it, the balance, the heft of it in his palms.

  You’re dreaming.

  He knew that. He usually did. He thought a lot about his dreams and often in the middle of one was able to consider what his sleeping mind was trying to tell him. In this one he was surrounded. The enemy was unseen but Harry knew they were there. The sky was a dreary grey. He was hot and tired. A sense of menace gripped him.

  Next he was on that old hillside again. Sniper fire was pinning him down. The body of his slain comrade bleeding freshly. His men were returning fire. But Lisa was there too. His sleeping self understood the incongruity of that. Harry had served her tea. She had just made the same proposal. The one about sex. Her calmness under the circumstances filled him with wonder. Over and above that was the intuition that she was in great peril. That he could save her. And that saving her was the most important thing to him.

  Then she was lying beside him, pressing into his side. The sandbag wall was to his back and she was pressing him against it. Machine gun bullets snapped the air close above their heads. It was inching closer. To stay safe, they were hugging down tighter, their bodies pressing more firmly together. He could feel the shape of her against him. She was a perfect fit.