NVK

by Temple Drake

  “You’re not going to lecture me, are you?”

  “I’ll leave that to our father.”

  “Right.” Qi Jing sighed.

  “Come and have a drink. It’s nothing fancy—just me and a couple of musician friends.” He gave her the address of the bar they always went to. “We won’t be getting there till nine.”

  * * *

  —

  Four hours later, Zhang, Mad Dog, and Laser walked out into the night. A warm wind was blowing, and loose sheets of paper whirled about, trapped in the narrow, dead-end funnel of the alley. When they reached the main road, they turned right, past a fast-food outlet. Red sparks flew from the end of Mad Dog’s cigarette.

  “That was a good session,” Laser said.

  Mad Dog grunted.

  They had started with some old favorites—“Love in Vain,” “Champagne and Reefer,” and John Lee Hooker’s “Highway 13”—but they had spent at least half the time on Zhang’s new song, which they were calling “Ghost Woman Blues.”

  Once in the bar, they climbed a flight of stairs and sat at their usual table, on a mezzanine. Their conversation drifted, punctuated by noise coming from the TV below.

  They were already on their second drink when Qi Jing appeared. She was dressed in a black T-shirt and designer jeans, and a chunky Rolex encircled her slender wrist.

  She looked at Zhang, then she looked around. “You weren’t joking when you said it wasn’t fancy.”

  Mad Dog and Laser grinned, as if she had paid them both a compliment.

  “This is Qi Jing,” Zhang said. “My sister.”

  He went downstairs and bought her a vodka and tonic, which was the only thing she ever drank. When he returned, she and Laser were talking about the recent Grand Prix in Shanghai. It seemed they were both motor-racing fans.

  Mad Dog nudged Zhang in the ribs. “You didn’t say your sister was coming.”

  “Let them talk,” Zhang said.

  “What are you up to?”

  Zhang glanced at Laser, who was telling Qi Jing about his other band, the Dense Haloes, and how they had toured Korea and Japan.

  “You should come and see us,” he said.

  Qi Jing was watching him, her right elbow on the table, her hand cupping her cheek and chin. “Why? Will it change my life?”

  It was hard to believe that she was almost thirty-five. She looked—and behaved—like a much younger woman.

  “About your blonde friend,” Mad Dog said, staring down into his glass.

  “What about her?” Zhang said.

  “How long is she in London for?”

  “A week.”

  Mad Dog knocked his whiskey back. “Something else to bear in mind about ghosts. They don’t view time as we do. For a ghost, time is nonlinear. The present isn’t a development of the past, but a palimpsest through which the past continues to assert itself. That’s why the woman in the story I told you could be standing in a shop, buying groceries, and also lying dead in her grave. Both aspects of the story are true.”

  “They can appear in two places at once?”

  “Yes.”

  Zhang drank from his bottle of beer.

  “I told you to tell me if anything unusual happens,” Mad Dog said. “Have you noticed anything?”

  Zhang hesitated.

  “You have, haven’t you.”

  Zhang described what happened the last time he saw Naemi—the loss of consciousness, the miraculous recovery, the nosebleed in the middle of the night.

  Mad Dog’s whole body tensed. “This changes everything.”

  “How do you mean?” Zhang said.

  “Get me another drink.”

  When Zhang returned with a double whiskey—Qi Jing and Laser didn’t want anything—Mad Dog told him that blood-drinking ghosts were a breed apart. Another proposition altogether.

  “I knew you’d jump to conclusions,” Zhang said.

  “When they drink someone’s blood,” Mad Dog went on, “they generally take on the appearance and energy of the person in question. Drinking blood allows them to be human. No, more than human. They’re faster than ordinary people. Stronger too. They seem enhanced.”

  “This is all just superstition,” Zhang said. “People out in the sticks might believe it, but not here, in Shanghai.”

  But the word his friend had used—enhanced—had triggered something. He thought of the way Naemi had moved towards him when she found him outside the museum, and the speed with which she had reached the lifts when she left the Chairman Suite after their first night together.

  “The blood you mentioned,” Mad Dog said. “Was it yours?”

  “Of course not,” Zhang said. “You think I wouldn’t have noticed?”

  “Whose was it, then?”

  “I told you. She had a nosebleed.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “Not exactly.” Zhang hesitated again. “I felt she was lying, but I couldn’t work out what the truth might be. I still can’t.”

  Mad Dog took a Shanghai Gold from the packet on the table and rolled it pensively between his fingers. It was the first time Zhang had admitted that something might be wrong.

  “Why did you feel she was lying?” Mad Dog asked.

  “It was the position she was in when I appeared in the doorway. It was as if I had caught her doing something secret—or something intensely private.” Zhang paused, thinking back. “What she was saying made perfect sense, but everything I was looking at seemed to contradict it. She wasn’t behaving like someone with a nosebleed. There was a strange atmosphere in the room—”

  Qi Jing reached across the table and touched his arm. “We’re thinking of going somewhere else. Somewhere a little less—”

  “I know,” Zhang said. “This is a pretty awful place.”

  “You don’t mind? We’ve hardly spoken.”

  “We’ll catch up later. I’ll call you.” She stood up and came round the table and spoke into his ear. “I like your friend.”

  Zhang smiled.

  When Qi Jing and Laser had left, Zhang bought Mad Dog another whiskey and a beer. Mad Dog swallowed the whiskey and put the glass down carefully, as if he was making a move in a game of chess.

  “Do your feet hurt?” he asked.

  Zhang stared at him.

  “Blood-drinking ghosts,” Mad Dog said. “They draw your blood out through the soles of your feet. Usually at night, while you’re asleep.”

  “My feet are fine.”

  “No sensitivity? No puncture holes?”

  Zhang shook his head.

  Mad Dog drank some beer, then he began again.

  “This is what I know. When a ghost drinks someone’s blood, he not only kills that person. He steals that person’s identity. He becomes that person. He literally takes the shape of the person he has killed.”

  Zhang thought back to the breakfast at the Park Hyatt, and Gulsvig’s face when he saw the young woman he had been in love with half a century before. It was a physical impossibility, of course—unless…

  “You’re not listening,” Mad Dog said.

  “Sorry. What did you say?”

  “You can’t judge by appearances.” Eyes lowered, Mad Dog was turning his whiskey glass on the table, turning and turning it, his gray hair falling forwards, across his face. “On the outside, the ghost is the person he has killed. On the inside, he’s a ghost. He’s actually dead twice over. A blood-drinking ghost is a murderer—by definition. At least, that’s how it works in China.”

  Zhang thought about mentioning Gulsvig, but he was worried the story would only prove Mad Dog’s theory. There was even a part of Zhang that wished he hadn’t talked about the blood. Why? Because he wanted Naemi to be who she claimed to be. Because he couldn’t contemplate the alternative. Because he loved her. That was
what he realized in that moment, even though Mad Dog would tell him he wasn’t thinking straight. You can’t love a woman like that, Mad Dog would say. You can’t love a ghost.

  Zhang finished his beer. “I need to go.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Mad Dog stood up, swaying a little as he buttoned his suit jacket. “Is your car here?”

  “Not tonight.”

  Outside the bar, they stood on the pavement, Mad Dog looking to the east, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Walk with me,” he said.

  Zhang wondered how many drinks Mad Dog had had. Six, at least. Maybe more.

  They set off in the direction of Suzhou Creek. The warm wind had died down. They passed a small group of men on a street corner, sitting on upended crates and boxes, playing cards for money. A fruit shop was still open. A man in a T-shirt that said GRENADE dozed on a green plastic lounger by the entrance. Once, Mad Dog tripped on a tree root, but Zhang caught him before he fell. The smell he gave off was stale and bitter, like old bok choy.

  “Are you angry with me?” Mad Dog asked.

  “No,” Zhang said. “I’m not angry.”

  “Blood-drinking ghosts aren’t usually female. That’s very rare. Unheard of, really.” He stopped and turned to Zhang, a strained look on his face. “If what I suspect is true, then you’re in danger.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you.”

  “Do you still have the mirror I gave you,” Mad Dog said, “and the little piece of peach wood?”

  Zhang nodded.

  They crossed Suzhou Creek. From the middle of the bridge, Zhang could just make out the Embankment Building, dark brown and bulky, almost brooding. Naemi would not be home tonight. She would be on her way to London—or perhaps she was already there…

  They passed the New Asia Hotel, then turned right, onto Tanggu Road. It was darker suddenly, and there were fewer shops. After walking for another five minutes, Zhang noticed a paved area overhung with huge dark trees. A silver ghetto blaster stood on the ground, playing a waltz, and three or four young couples in T-shirts and jeans were dancing formally nearby. Mad Dog stopped to light a cigarette.

  “All right,” Zhang said. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that she’s a ghost. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Mad Dog remained quite still—except for the hand holding the cigarette, which trembled slightly. “She could feed off you. Take you over.”

  “What would you do, if you were me?”

  Mad Dog’s eyes were on the dancers. “I’d have nothing to do with her. I’d cut off all contact.” He paused. “I’d run a mile.”

  “It’s not so easy.”

  “No. Probably not.” Mad Dog glanced at Zhang and saw that he was smiling. “What’s so funny?”

  “The idea of you running.”

  A taxi’s green light appeared up ahead, and Zhang held out an arm. As the taxi slowed and stopped, he asked Mad Dog if he would like a lift. Mad Dog pressed his lips together in a straight line and shook his head, as if Zhang had suggested they indulge in some unbelievable and slightly disgusting luxury.

  “I’ll walk,” he said. “The night air will do me good.”

  “You’re not too drunk?”

  Mad Dog dropped his cigarette in the gutter, then moved off along the pavement, heading north, his right hand lifted in the air above his shoulder. Beyond him, the young couples danced beneath the overhanging trees.

  * * *

  —

  Once in the taxi, Zhang checked his messages. He found a text from Qi Jing: Your drummer’s cute. He nodded to himself. It seemed his ruse had worked. But there was nothing from Naemi. On a whim—and despite all Mad Dog’s warnings—he rang the number Johnny Yu had given him, only half expecting it to work. She didn’t answer. Five minutes later, he tried again, and there she was suddenly, so clear that she could have been sitting right beside him.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Zhang,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in London. On my way to an appointment.”

  “You sound so close.”

  “I wish.” She laughed quickly. “How did you get my number?”

  “I asked you the same thing once. You didn’t answer.”

  There was a silence on the other end.

  “Are you all right?” she said after a while. “Your voice is a bit peculiar.”

  Zhang looked through the window of the taxi. A man with no right arm stood outside a pet shop, smoking.

  “I’m tired, that’s all.” He paused. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel real, what’s happening between us.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “There’s something I can’t get hold of, even if we’re in the same room. Even if we’re in bed together.”

  “Is it because I’m not what you’re used to?”

  “I don’t think it’s that.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s difficult. Mad Dog thinks—” Zhang bit his lip. He had been trying not to mention Mad Dog, but he’d had too many drinks, and it had just slipped out.

  “What does Mad Dog think?” Her voice was light and curious, though he thought he could detect a hardness underneath, as if she was upset but pretending not to be.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I told you before. He has some pretty far-fetched ideas.”

  She fell silent again. In the background, he thought he heard a car go by. He checked his watch. In London, it would be rush hour.

  “Naemi? Are you still there?”

  “He drinks a lot,” she said, “doesn’t he.”

  Zhang nodded. “Yes.”

  “He should be careful.” She seemed to be on the point of saying something else, but checked herself. “Listen, I’m about to go underground. I’m probably going to—”

  Her voice cut out. He had lost her.

  Taking his phone from his ear, he held it in his hand and stared straight ahead. The mouth of the Xinjian Road Tunnel filled the taxi’s windscreen. He, too, was about to go underground.

  THAT AFTERNOON, dressed in dark, nondescript clothing and wearing a black beanie over her hair, Naemi had followed Zhang to a recording studio in an alley off Beijing East Road. Four hours later, she had followed him and his two musician friends to a nearby bar. As she watched the entrance from a position she had taken up on the far side of the street, she was surprised to see Zhang’s sister, Qi Jing, appear. She left before they did—with Laser, the drummer. It was almost midnight by the time Zhang and Mad Dog emerged. This was the moment she had been waiting for. But she had another surprise in store. The two men didn’t separate, as she had expected. Instead, they moved off in the direction of Suzhou Creek. Once again, she followed, but this time she was frowning. Was Zhang going to walk Mad Dog home? She hoped not.

  After an hour, the two men came to a halt. Ducking into an unlit doorway, she watched as they stood at a junction, talking. She was too far away to hear what was being said. Instead, the measured, jaunty notes of a waltz floated through the air to her. There were young people dancing in formal couples beneath the trees. It was oddly stately, quaint too, like a scene from another era. Turning her attention back to the two men, she saw Zhang raise an arm. A taxi pulled up beside him. Would they both get in? She held her breath. They exchanged a few more words, then Mad Dog walked away, leaving Zhang to climb into the taxi by himself.

  “At last,” she murmured.

  She waited until the taxi turned the corner, then she followed Mad Dog down a wide road that led over a canal. She passed a man selling barbecued meat on bamboo skewers, and for a split second she was back near the beginning of her life, crouching behind a wooden panel in the dark…Just then, she felt her phone vibrate inside her pocket. She looked at the screen. Zhang was calling—from the taxi, presumably. But how had he got hold of her number? She certainly
hadn’t given it to him. She stared at his name, then pressed Decline. Putting her phone away, she looked up. Mad Dog had disappeared.

  In a panic, she began to hurry along the pavement. The streetlamps gave off a dim brownish-yellow light, and there were long intervals between them. Could he be home already? She prayed this wasn’t so. She passed an estate agent, which was still open. Who bought property at one in the morning? Even after a decade in the city, there were things that mystified her. Up ahead was a dingy restaurant. She slowed as she approached. Inside, Mad Dog was sitting on a chair upholstered in purple fabric with a large bottle of beer in front of him. He was the only customer.

  Stepping back from the window, Naemi crossed the road and sat down on a bench. She would wait for Mad Dog to finish his beer. She didn’t think it would take too long. While she was waiting, her phone began to vibrate. It was Zhang again. This time she decided to answer, reminding herself, before she did, that she was in London, and that London was eight hours behind Shanghai.

  * * *

  —

  If Naemi ended the call abruptly, it was because she had glimpsed a movement in the corner of her eye. Mad Dog had lurched to his feet. As he paid for his beer, tossing a few coins onto the table, she eased off the bench and hid behind a parked car. Mad Dog came to a standstill outside the restaurant, by the door. He was feeling for something in his pocket. Why had she answered the second time Zhang called? She supposed that she couldn’t resist the chance to hear his voice. She had been missing him. But what if he had recognized the sound of Shanghai in the background? What if it occurred to him that she might not be in London at all—that the work trip she had mentioned was a fabrication? She shook her head. She had taken such a risk. Still, it seemed she might have got away with it. In the meantime, Mad Dog was having trouble guiding the flame of the lighter towards the end of his cigarette. Finally, he managed it. Inhaling deeply, he muttered something to himself and moved off along the pavement. She waited a few moments, then crossed the street.

  As she followed Mad Dog, she thought he was more unsteady than before. The beer must have gone straight to his head. She stared at his hunched back with such intensity it was a wonder he didn’t sense her presence. She was thinking of the night she met him, at Yu Yin Tang. There had been a few moments when she was alone with him, on the terrace. She had been gazing out into the park when he said something to her, but he was already drunk and slurring his words and she hadn’t understood. Then he said it again, more clearly this time. You’re not welcome here. She told him she had been invited. She was Zhang’s guest. He looked at her quickly, as if looking was hazardous, then lowered his eyes. I know what you are.