by Andy Oakes
A real buzz … people having fun … nothing dangerous.
“… they are on their way to see a public execution.”
*
The stadium was full, a capacity of twenty-five thousand seated. The Senior Investigator showed his badge once more. It was met by a salute.
“We can still leave. We do not have to be here.”
Barbara shook her head. She was close to him, he could almost taste her lipstick; wanting to taste her lipstick.
“I need to see this,” was all that she said.
“But why, when you do not have to see it?”
“I need to see this …” she said again. And Piao knowing, that sometimes truly to know death, it must be tasted. Not read about. Not studied. Not viewed on a cinema screen. But tasted. He nodded, and firmly taking her arm, they moved forward. They stood in the tunnel, in the shadow, away from the blind of spotlights. In the centre of the arena, a raised stage pooled in arc light and already studded with dark suited high cadre and polished and preened PSB. An open-topped lorry moved up the tunnel from the road. A deep throb of engine, belching diesel exhaust. It passed right beside them, filled with olive green uniforms. High cheek boned impassive faces, some fixed with black lensed glasses that offered back no reflection. At the top front, three figures. Two in white shirts, eyes looking down. Between them a taller man. Handsome, black jacket buttoned to the neck. Its cut sophisticated, not Chinese. On his shoulders, the white gloved hands of the PSB officers. The lorry plunged into the arc light. The officer’s black lenses blazing white.
“His name is Wang Jianye. He was a high cadre, the planning chief of Shenzhen in the south. He accepted bribes of one and a half million dollars while he was a director of a municipal planning bureau. He was also keeping a mistress. They extradited him from Thailand to stand trial.”
The lorry approached the stage and stopped, the PSB filing out. The three brought forward, marched from the vehicle; one of them supported under his arms, his legs folding beneath him. Wang moving more confidently. A sense of resignation glimpsed in each footstep.
“Who are the other two in the white shirts?”
“Officials. Tiny fish. Minor cadre. Wang is the big one. The highest ranking official ever to be tried and sentenced. Beijing is involved in an anti-corruption drive. There is much concern in the continued rise of economic crime. Senior officials have ordered that the campaign is to be pursued with a renewed vigour. Wang, he is the example that shows that the campaign is working …”
Piao lit a cigarette, offering one to Barbara. She declined.
“… I have never seen an execution before. I have always been able to transfer to other duties.”
She reached across and held his hand. His fingers, cold, rigid. Wang was pulled forward, flanked by two officers. An official rose and read out a list of his crimes in a voice that was harsh and over-amplified, pumped out over loudspeakers for the benefit of the crowd.
“Injustice! I am innocent!” Wang shouting out, his voice small. The crowd starting a chant of ‘kill, kill.’ And then it all moving so fast. Two PSB Officers forcing Wang’s arms back, like flimsy black wings. Throwing him down onto his knees. The officers stepping back, but Wang remaining in position as if transfixed by the moment; the unfurling of the seconds that would end his life. A third officer marching forward, stubby rifle in hand. Bracing himself. The end of the barrel pushed firmly to the base of Wang’s skull. Steel … so cold, kissing skin. A plume of smoke, silver-white, in a lazy twirl. Wang pitching forward. And then the sound. Not the sharp crack that Barbara had expected, more a thud that seemed to slam into her. That seemed to pinpoint, to package, every act of violence that she had ever witnessed.
“Jesus.”
She felt herself jump. A numbness working its way up from her legs. Piao’s hand tightening around hers. His other arm around her waist, leading her back down the dark tunnel, through the barriers, towards the road. Her face looking back across her shoulder towards the arena. The puppet limp body of Wang being loaded onto the lorry. A dampness spreading down the back of his jacket. A vomit of blood, scarlet, falling to green … dripping from his mouth and onto the grass. He would be cremated within two hours.
They were out of the stadium and into the road. The loudspeakers calling to attention the list of economic crimes of the next criminal to be executed. That he was an, ‘obstacle to the progress of the economy … a maggot in the rice sack.’
The world had turned, night swept in on a wave of car lights. Everything different now.
Barbara’s eyes narrowed in their glare.
“How many do they execute?”
“It is not known …”
Piao pulled his collar up. There was a chill in the air, the weather on the turn.
“… but it is many. We have sixty-eight offences that are now punishable by death. Fraud, hooliganism, illegal share speculation, spreading superstition. The offences increase; the executions increase. At this time of the year we have many public executions at mass rallies.”
“Why at this time of the year?”
The Senior Investigator led them into Xietulu, moving east. Snatches of PSB in doorways, readying themselves for the crowds to decant onto the streets. Piao hailed a pedicab and they seated themselves in the rear. Petrol and piss smelling cushions. Barbara’s hand seeking his as the motorised rickshaw struggled to build up speed.
“You said this time of the year … there are more executions around now?”
The Senior Investigator removed his hand from hers and lit another cigarette, his features shunted sideways by the brilliance of the flame.
“It is nearly the Lunar New Year. It is a time for traditions. New clothes are bought, hair is cut, bills are paid. Lucky characters are pasted everywhere. Families will gather for a feast. Special dumplings and niangao, ‘rising higher every year cakes’ …”
He drew closer. Barbara could see the orange tip of his cigarette reflected in his eyes. His skin the colour of copper.
“… the New Year is also a traditional time for settling outstanding scores. A traditional time for seeking vengeance.”
A passing Pedicab backfired and she was back there, at the stadium. Wang falling forward, shadow shortening. The crowd silent. The PSB Officer stepping back. The smoke tumbling from the rifle’s barrel. The tears fell and she could not block them, streaming down her cheeks as Piao’s arm encircled her, his rough jacket smelling of loneliness and hope.
A traditional time for seeking vengeance.
How could such cruelty ever have become so institutionalised?
The Pedicab had built up speed. She closed her eyes. The flick of street light to street light, melting velvet through her eyelids. Each pulse taking her further from the stadium. How she wanted to be taken further from the stadium …
*
The Jing Jiang seemed as if it were another world; perhaps it was. Tourists, with their smells of soap, leather, perfume … and black market currency deals. Attentions already focussed to the next destination on their twenty-one day itinerary. Piao walked her to her room.
“Tomorrow, your visit to Gongdelin prison. I want to go with you.”
He felt the weight of her request immediately burden him. Understanding the words, but not understanding the reason behind them.
“Why would you want to see such a place as this?”
“I need to put Bobby’s death in some kind of context …”
A hundred reasons to say no. Barbara placing two fingers across his lips.
“… you’re not going to block me are you? We agreed to help each other, not cut each other out.”
The coolness of her fingertips on his lips. He wanted to kiss them, bite them. She only removed them when he smiled. She unlocked the door. Switching the light on and slipping inside. Closing the door between them, a gap of a foot spilling pink light. Her head resting on the door frame.
“If you really want to help me, you’ll do this for me …”
The door closing to a fine thread. Pink on pink. Her lips. Her cheek. Her fingertips.
“… you’ll do this for me and then dry my tears.”
He didn’t have time to answer; the door closed.
*
He was at the elevator when her door opened and she called his name; the smile still haunting her mouth.
“Thank you for a very special day, Sun. It meant a lot to me.”
She opened the door a little wider. The side of her face stroked in pastels.
“The execution. It was just something that I had to see. Can you understand that?”
He nodded. Knowing. Sometimes you must give horror a reference point to know its face again in your life, or in the lives of others. She reached out, a hand moving to his arm, his shoulder, the back of his neck. Pulling him closer. Her lips on his. Strawberries brushing stone. A long kiss. A thank you? Friendship? It felt like more … he knew that it was more.
The door closed. He walked back to the open mouth of the elevator … already mentally drying her tears.
Black Shanghai Sedan on the corner of avenues … the junctions of streets meeting as one.
Black Shanghai Sedan … everywhere that they were. Engine running in a lazy pant.
He’d seen it, she’d seen it.
By the Temple of the Jade Buddha. Following them in a slow stretch from Zhongshandong Lu, as they had cruised the Huangpu until it became the Yangtze. As they had eaten lacquered duck at the Xinya, rolling it in a cigar of fine pancake, spring onion and earth red plum sauce … the black Shanghai Sedan, opposite, in the shadows. In the park next to the Longhua Pagoda as they had drunk tea, jasmine on her lips and on her breath … through the trees, the outline of the Sedan broken in a green on green melt.
He’d seen it, she’d seen it.
But no words. No questions, why?
*
Four telephone booths in the lobby of the Jing Jiang hotel …
EENEY … MEENY … MINEY … MO …
The more random the choice, the less the chance of it being bugged?
IF IT WRIGGLES LET IT GO …
The lobby telephones. They wouldn’t bug the lobby telephones … would they? What would be the point, so many use them. How would they identify one caller from another?
EENEY … MEENY … MINEY … MO …
Cursing inwardly. The satellite phone that Carmichael had offered her, why hadn’t he insisted?
Why hadn’t she accepted?
MO … the booth on the far right.
MO … the second on the left.
MO … the first booth.
Waiting until the middle-right booth was vacant. Its mouthpiece still warm … pin beads of condensation on Bakelite. Mouthing Carmichael’s private number to herself. Dialling direct. A bag full of yuan coins in her pocket, and a tight agenda in her head …
“Where are you telephoning from?”
“The hotel. The Jing Jiang.”
“Jesus. Put the receiver down.”
“Why?”
“Put it down, it will be tapped.”
“I’m in the lobby, it’s safe. It must be safe.”
“ Not safe. Safer.”
“So its safer … and I need to talk and you need to listen.”
Silence … in the background, an electronic beat pacing out the half seconds.
“So talk. Talk fast. No names. No precise details. Just generalisations. Got it?”
Silence … the beat stronger … quicker. A snare drum rim hit at double time.
“I want your unseen friends off my back. Understand?”
Silence.
“Was it your idea? It feels like your idea.”
“You need support. There could be more to going missing than there appears. The other party could be trying to apply pressure. They know you’re a mother.”
“I’m a politician first.”
“They know you better than you do. You’re a mother first.”
“ I know what I am.”
“Okay. If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want. Also, there’s others involved … watching. I want to prepare for any eventuality. Know what I’m saying? My friend, the comrade. Let’s dig a little. Honey and shit, okay? And then prepare some packages for me to take to the picnic.”
Carmichael laughing.
“Tough talking. Private arrangements. My area of expertise.”
“Thought you’d like it. And the other little job I left with you … the groundwork and that shopping list?”
“Again, my area of expertise. My Christmas shopping is almost complete now.”
A wash of white noise.
“Down to my loose change. See you soon.”
“Remember, you’re a mother. They will! Are you alright? Are you alri …”
Silence … the line dead. The ocean of static, still.
*
She held the receiver to her ear for sometime after the call was completed, listening for the tell-tale ‘click’ of a tapped line. A ‘click’ that never came. The silence, seeming to swallow her whole. And in her head, the only sounds in the universe, were lyrics from a song whose title she could not remember …
‘… you’re gonna reap just what you sow …
… you’re gonna reap just what you sow …’
Chapter 17
Long after you left Gongdelin, ‘Virtue Forest’, it would remain in your mind. Asked to describe it, only one image would you be able to summon up … that of a clenched fist.
A vast and threatening clenched fist.
*
The car approached the great studded gate flanked by video cameras and armed security guards. A slither of light appearing down the centre of its length, both halves sliding open and spewing out a grey light fed by stained skylights and discoloured reflector shades, tethered by wire and dust covered cobwebs. Barbara had a sudden image of Jonah being swallowed by the whale. A sheen of perspiration forcing its way to her forehead, as the gates closed behind them, and the thump of bolts ramming into place. How could you ever get use to a place like this, even in five, ten, or twenty years? The noise of keys, of locks, of doors slamming.
“This is foolish. I should not have been persuaded to bring you. I should not have allowed myself to be …”
The Senior Investigator’s fingers drumming on the steering wheel with each word spoken, with each word unspoken.
“… remember, you are a member of the Washington State Parole Committee …”
Piao tapped the papers clenched in her fingers.
“… it is all in the internal travel documents and permit of authority. It is unlikely that you will be challenged, being seen with me will be enough, but it is best that you should be prepared. Yes, best to be prepared.”
Barriers to the front: red, white, candy stripes. Guards moving out of the office to the sides of the car. The peaks of their hats, like razor blades, slicing across the bridges of noses.
Barbara felt her stomach contract. A taste of oiled steel across her tongue. The colour draining from her face.
“Documents.”
Piao flipped his badge. A brief flicker of the guard’s eyes. A snap of a salute.
“Park your car in Bay 13, Senior Investigator. An officer will take you to the Comrade Chief Warden.”
The barrier rose. Piao drove through. They hadn’t even looked at Barbara’s papers. She dropped them into her bag, a sense of disappointment in her eyes. The Senior Investigator still muttering …
“I should not have allowed myself.”
*
Chief Warden Mai Lin Hua’s office was in a pleasant administration block as far as it could be from the long, beige rabbit warren corridors, the cells that studded them like tumours, and their contents … the crumpled heaps that they referred to as ‘guests’. Guests. A name that bore none of the horror of not being able to leave Gongdelin’s firm grasp.
Hua’s desk was ordered, as was his face. A neutrality about it that would make i
t instantly forgettable within seconds of leaving his office. On the desk was a large photograph … two children of around eight to ten years old. It was hard to tell their age as they looked exactly like their father. Nothing in their features to hook onto, to use as reference points. They would also be instantly forgettable within seconds.
“Please … sit, sit, sit.”
His English, jerky, bumpy.
“A privilege. A privilege. A colleague from America. Washington. We must get coffee. Yes … coffee. Americans like coffee?”
Barbara nodded.
“And then a tour. A tour. You must have a tour. We have prepared for you. It is not often that we have such an esteemed visitor. A foreign visitor. It was short notice. Very short notice, but we prepared.”
She found herself smiling, like a fool, smiling.
“You have prepared?”
“The orchestra. Our twenty-five piece symphony orchestra. MaYi Ping has them assembled. He is the conductor. He was musician on the outside. Yes, musician … and robber of course. That is how he got to be in here. Seven years. Now he just conducts. He learnt to do it here. Our dance troupe you also see, yes? And our operatic tenor soloist and mixed chorus.”
Barbara felt the smile dying on her face.
“Yes. Yes. We have many plans for our foreign guest Senior Investigator. Go. Go. My Deputy will take you to see the guest that you required. Your Officer Yaobang will meet you there. We will look after our foreign friend. Go. Go.”
He waved his hands at Piao as the door opened, and a man, the Deputy, his face as gaunt as a switch blade, stepped into the room and saluted. Chief Warden Hua beamed, his eyes crumpled tight. Fleshy craters of imploded skin.
“Go. Go.”
Piao smiled at Barbara as he passed her.
“Have fun.”
“She will. She will,” replied Hua, as he ushered the Senior Investigator out, closing the door.
*
From an iron core of gantries and spiral open stairs wrapped in a gossamer of meshed steel, radiated the corridors like the spokes of a wheel. A brightness about them, a cleanliness that seemed to be in a head-on collision with the horror of incarceration. In the corridors, in the cells, the lights burning constantly, day, night … boundaries of time blurred into just one vast stretch of hard white light. The doors to the cells were panelled with reinforced glass. Prisoners were required to sleep facing the glass so that guards could watch over them. If a ‘guest’ turned in his sleep, guards would wake him. A swollen and infected ear was common amongst those who had to sleep on one side for many years; in such cases you might be permitted to turn over. And from the central core, constantly, the salvo of doors slamming. Of screams, of threats. Of lives left to stew in their own juices.