The 8th Sky_A Psychological Novel With An Unforgettable Twist

by Leigh Lyn

  Another question that occupied me was whether anyone saw me at 8th Sky. The only people who knew I went there were QiQi, Xiao Xiong, his men, and the cab driver. I passed the customs with my Chinese-home-return-ID card. If anyone checked, there would be records that showed I was in Chongqing at the time. But I could say I went there for Xiao Cai’s meeting. I could claim that, after it was canceled, I roamed the backstreets, ate street food, had food poisoning and stayed in bed.

  In my mind, I went over those eight days, tracing the places where I’d left evidence of my presence at the crime scene. I comforted myself it was likely that forensic science, if it existed at all in a place high up in the mountain like 8th Sky, would be primitive. My fingerprints were all over the place, sure, but the Chinese authorities should not have them in any records. With my nerves strung to a breaking point, I poured myself drink after drink to ignore the whiney, taunting voice in my head, whispering, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

  Chapter 46

  The twins were watching reruns of Game of Thrones in anticipation of the new season. I was thankful they were oblivious to what I was going through except for a stealthy glance Maxy cast in my direction when my cell rang and I dropped it.

  “Lin speaking,” I answered as cheerful as I could, but my voice sounded feverish still.

  It was Sam. The image of him calling after me in a back alley after I kicked over a can of spray paint flashed in front of my eyes.

  “Hey, Lin,” he said. “I hope you’ve enjoyed and recovered from our rambles in New York.”

  His carefree, flirtatious banter sounded absurd to my ears because I’d been shrouding myself from the hustle of life while trying to grind down the fear, which was mauling my heart to pieces.

  “I’m coping, I guess.”

  “Understated as usual,” Sam laughed. “I heard you did great.”

  “You heard from whom?”

  “From Francis. I’m calling to tell you we have another gig in three, four months from now: show, auction, the whole charade. London this time. You must come!”

  Baffled by an invitation to do God-knows-what in a future I might not have, I stammered, “Really?”

  Catching my demoralized tone, Sam asked, “What’s wrong? You seem preoccupied.”

  My throat blocked up. “It’s nothing.”

  “Are you sure? Ben asked Yuxi and me to take care of you, you know.”

  My heart sank further. Where was Ben and why couldn’t he call to say hello? I told Sam I’d think about London and said goodbye, after which I preoccupied myself with the twins. My cell rang again. This time, it was Frieda, also in the highest of spirit and bubbly as champagne.

  “Hey, sweetie, I want to remind you of the fundraising event. We’re planning to surprise Dr. Wen and turn it into a mini farewell thing. We hired a boat with three masts. It’ll be great.”

  “Okay.” I picked up my voice, speaking louder and faster to sound less depressed. “I’ll try to make it.”

  “You’ll try? I know what that means, Miss Lee,” Frieda ranted. “I’m so stressed from compiling research, transcribing recordings and filing cases for Dr. Wen’s successor. Please don’t make me have to babysit you.”

  It then occurred to me it was Frieda who had led me in Shi Gong’s direction.

  “I’ll be there. By the way, have you got more news about my long-lost uncle?” I asked, as casual as I could. It had been days since I was back. If Shi Gong’s body had been found, then Frieda would find out about it sooner or later.

  “Sorry, but I have been up to my neck assisting my old and new bosses with the handover arrangements. And sweetie, Dr. Wen needs to decide which therapists to recommend for which patient. You should have a session before he decides; butter him up, you know?”

  “I will.” I nodded. “So, you have not found anything new since the last time we spoke?”

  Frieda’s suspicions rose. “Why, were you not in Chongqing last time we spoke?”

  I cringed. “I was there for a project. My mother is convinced the bloke you said was my uncle is a fake.”

  “If you ask me, the million-dollar question is why your mother claims your uncle is dead?”

  I was too perturbed to answer. Only a week after contesting Niang, I had become my own murder suspect of the same uncle. It appeared I was madder than a madhouse rat. What was worse, by concealing my crime, had I not crossed to the dark side? The tension was a stretch for an accidental criminal like me. The shame and guilt of having done wrong, of killing someone and concealing it to protect oneself was bewildering and paralyzing at the same time.

  I wondered how the pros did it. Did they fabricate narratives to sooth and justify themselves? Was our future as much a fictional construction originating in our minds as the past was a fictional reconstruction of what we wished to have been? How should I steer this narrative where I wanted it to go, and what place did I hold in Shi Gong’s and G.Y.’s narrative?

  “Hello? Are you still there?” Frieda asked.

  “Yes,” I hurried to say. “I just need time to figure things out.”

  “Why don’t I book you one more session with Dr. Wen?” Frieda asked.

  The mere thought of Dr. Wen’s all-knowing gaze on me caused my muscles to tighten and the tendons in my neck to pulse. Dr. Wen might see through me like a sheet of glass. On the one hand, was I content to crawl back into the trenches and lie low? On the other, could I live a reclusive, secret life even if I wanted to? Should I? This was the crux where I decided what my true colors were.

  “Did you hear me, Lin?” Frieda’s voice jolted me from my cascading thoughts.

  “I guess I could see Dr. Wen one more time.”

  “I’ll text you the time and date. And mark your diary for the fundraising event. The NGO orchestrates support to homeless people who are mentally ill. Do not tell Dr. Wen it’s his farewell thing,” Frieda said, before she hung up.

  The following week my mood swung back and forth like a pendulum from a positive outlook to being convinced I would be caught and spend the rest of my days in prison. It got so bad I wondered if I had lapsed into psychosis and my life was the flickering of my imagination. Over time, the intensity waned. The involuntary flashbacks stayed away for longer and I managed to wing work, domestic life, and being as good a mother to the twins as I could. Having friends with stricter mothers to compare me with, Maxy and Mimi were forgiving.

  At work, I dealt with yet another competition. After a huge fight with Stephanie over whether counseling suicidal officials was within our scope of work, Peter saved my butt by assigning me to competitions full-time. Now, architectural competitions were like the eight-hundred-meter dash at the Olympics. The only worthwhile method for participating was believing one could be the best. With a team that was young and gung-ho to put in 110%, it was an excellent distraction that paid off, and we won. So, I was on the right foot with Peter again.

  After a while, my saga at 8th Sky seemed like a dream, which explained why there were no news reports in the papers nor any whimper indicating the slightest mayhem. Deep down I knew what I had seen was as real as it was raw; Shi Gong’s mushy gray brain stuck to my shoe; the rusty smell of congealing blood in the air; the sour taste of my vomit lingering in my mouth. At night when the lights were off, I was in a state of shock and my mind was quivering from the realization I’d killed a man. During the day, I evade these thoughts while feeling baffled by the absence of any consequence of my crime.

  Dr. Wen’s oak-paneled room was empty except for Bull’s Eye, his white bull terrier, who licked my hand as I patted his head. Feeling light-headed, I lay down on the couch and waited for him as Frieda told me to.

  “Hello, Lin.” Dr. Wen’s energetic voice boomed across his office as he pounced in with his white hair billowing behind him. Within seconds, he settled into his armchair opposite the couch.

  “Frieda must have told you this is our last session before I retire,” he said, in high spirits.

 
“She did.” I nodded. “I guess today I get to hear you say, ‘Your time’s up’ for the last time.”

  “I’m a little sad though. As a patient, you have shared so much of your life with me; I feel I know you better than my closest friends.”

  I mustered a smile. “Well, I am grateful to you too, for putting up with the pain in the butt I am.”

  Dr. Wen crossed his legs. “That never bothered me at all. What bothered me—if you don’t mind me saying—is that, although you are truthful most of the time, you never trust me enough to expose the wiring.”

  The wiring? Was he referring to the ghostly visitors I did not tell him about until the last session, or was he onto me? “You once said only the mentally disturbed have a painstaking urge to be authentic,” I said. “So, I thought you’d appreciate moderation in my honesty.”

  “Did I say that?” A smile broke through on Dr. Wen’s face. “I didn’t mean it that way though. In any case, today I’ll be making a recommendation for your forthcoming treatment, and it’s important we’re frank with one another.”

  “I’ll try, Doc. What’s the verdict?”

  “I am still torn. You have come a long way. When I first saw you two years ago, you said insanity was a label.” Dr. Wen peeked at his notes on the armrest of his chair. “You believed it disguised what is essentially a conspiracy against anti-establishment and overtly destructive elements in society. My diagnosis was that the cause of your psychosis was physiological rather than psychological. The sad consequence was that it had planted certain ideas in your head. Your recovery depended on whether or not these notions stuck around. My question now is simple: Do you still believe in them?”

  “Do I believe cases like mine persist because they are inadequately exposed to a socialization process necessary for social stability?” I paused for effect. “I do.”

  “Fair enough.” Dr. Wen nodded without giving away if he was satisfied with my answer and asked, “And how would you say you’re doing now?”

  The first time I laid eyes on Dr. Wen with his white hair seemed an aeon ago. It blew me away. And how fast he’d helped me to recuperate. But I now wondered what he would do if he knew everything. Would he help me or would he report me? Or would he claim reporting me would help me?

  Even if Dr. Wen believed me, he had a legal obligation to report crimes no matter if he liked it or not. Whether it was in the interest of his patients or not. I wouldn’t think he’d risk becoming my accomplice in crime. And if they arrest and throw me into a mainland prison, they would either force me to do hard labor until I perished; or they would send me right back to the asylum, where my chances of ever being released could be sub-zero.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “The job is difficult for all the wrong reasons, but I’m coping.” I raised my head to look at him. “Writing my memoir helped. I’m happy.”

  I clutched my clammy hands together.

  “It’s important to separate fiction from reality though. You know this, right?”

  “Yes, I do. In fiction, we transform ourselves into superheroes, witches, and vampires with a lick of the pen. In real life, we’re mortals struggling to find a publisher. I get that, Doc.”

  I hoped Dr. Wen didn’t notice the throbbing vein on my left temple from where he was sitting.

  “Well, if you’re happy, I’m good. Needless to say, in an ideal world, everything would be just and proper, and there would be no need for activists or martyrs. In the real world, people have good reasons to be righteous, but not everyone has the psychological tenacity for it, and I hate to see a life go to waste.” Dr. Wen paused and steepled his hands in front of his mouth. “Having established that, I’m pleased with your progress and see no need for you to continue therapy.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes. I suddenly felt so emotional I dipped my chin and bent down to hug Bull’s Eye to hide my face. “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.” Dr. Wen pretended not to notice my peculiar reaction. “But I’ll give you a reference letter for Dr. Liu, just in case you want to have a chat in the future.”

  “I’d love to,” I said, while my mind was already reeling. If I played it well and didn’t ruin it, this conundrum might end well against all the odds.

  Dr. Wen looked at his watch. “Well, your therapy is officially over.”

  The old man gave me a hug. The first one ever.

  “Take care, Lin. If you ever want to talk, about anything at all, get in touch. You know where to find me.”

  Chapter 47

  Astounded I was off the hook, I strayed into the sea of shoppers in Causeway Bay. No more couch sessions, no more pills, no more speculations about shadows in my dreams or phantoms in my childhood. I was rejoining the sane majority of mankind after committing the single most insane crime of my life which I, touch wood, seemed to have survived.

  Maybe life was about being able to do insane acts to survive, get away with them, and then wipe them from one’s memory. This validated my point: the real crazy and dangerous people live outside asylums. The ones inside are the odd eccentrics authentic enough to freak out at the banalities in the world and to confess the even crazier things they have invented or done to stay on top of these berserk collective narratives.

  All the tension about being confronted and found out by Dr. Wen in our last session drained out of my body. I was so relieved this was about to end. I had one more fundraising event to go and I’d be done. Off the radar! How hard could a yacht party be?

  I was overcome with gratitude for Dr. Wen, the twins, and life. Frightful as this week had been, it seemed I was going to get away with it. Whether dream or real, what had happened high up on that mountain ledge seemed to implode as long as I pretended none of it had happened. The only thing I could wish for was to wipe it from my memory.

  The last ten days, I’d felt trapped in a scene where I was the only one in a house full of tarantulas while a fire was blazing; I was stuck in the few seconds before the alarm went off alerting everyone to the impending catastrophe, the one living in perpetual terror while others got on with life.

  Having taken the day off, I went to the market just one street away to pick up groceries for the twins before going home. A district council candidate—whose face was on a large poster behind him—handed me a flyer. A few feet further up, a group of protestors for universal suffrage asked me to sign their petition, which I did. I then passed the restaurant where Ben and I had our first date when I felt a hand in the small of my back. The hair in the back of my neck stood up.

  “Hey, gorgeous.”

  I turned around and looked into Ben’s azure eyes with brown specks.

  “Did you miss me?”

  My brain resisted him, but my heart flared up, beating like a jackhammer. All the feelings I’d blocked flooding back as he picked me up to give me a peck on the cheek.

  “Were you stalking me?” I asked.

  “I would if I could, but you made me go away.”

  Confused, I stared at him.

  “You made me go away like you made everyone who cares about you go away.”

  Those were his last words as he put me down and receded into the crowd as fast as he had appeared. Stupefied, I gazed at the empty spot where Ben had stood three seconds ago. Dazed, I strolled past stalls with slippery fish, noisy poultry, and cheery fruits until I arrived at a butcher’s.

  Without looking, I pointed at the first thing on a table laid out with leftover cuts and organs and absentmindedly said, “This one please.”

  “Pig’s hearts are fifteen dollars each,” said the butcher, whose physique should not be the reason why he was bare-chested. He handed me a plastic bag filled with the squishy organ; I paid and resumed my way. I missed Ben so much. Where had he gone? Had Lao Bo found out he was having an affair with his beautiful mistress or did Ben threaten to blow the whistle on the money laundering? Either way, Ben’s life might be worth less than the pig, whose heart was in the bag.

  But why did Ben say I had mad
e him go away?

  Delirious, my mind spun around, linking incidents and exploring possibilities. Flashbacks morphed with reality into a stream of images of fluttering black gauze, red Milky Ways, split skulls, flames, ferries, shattering glass, crushed fingers, collapsing roofs, mountain scenes, snakeheads, glimmering crescent-shaped knives, aborted babies, planes, and butchered body parts. Was there any sense I could make of this?

  During my episode when the wiring in my mind shorted, a sense of prophetic clarity descended on me as if universal truths were revealed to me and me alone. In contrast, my mind was convoluted and murky as hell now. Of the two voices I heard arguing in Shi Gong’s compound, one was his and the other sounded like Niang’s, but the choice of words was not. Did this person have a hand in Shi Gong’s death? It occurred to me she could have been Li Meng. And suddenly I felt sick to my stomach.

  The sky began to spin. I dropped the flyer and staggered to the edge of the pavement where I held onto the metal barrier. Blocking out all thoughts, I flagged down a cab, threw the heart in the gutter and told the cab driver to take me home. On the way, I searched for the vial of pills in my purse and took a double dose.

  Chapter 48

  Come the day of Dr. Wen’s party, a cadmium sun was taking its time to set while feisty waves swept the stone steps at the Queen’s pier. At the bottom of the flight, a streamlined white craft looked otherworldly. Guests were boarding, and Frieda was showering her exuberant personality over them in equal measure.

  “Hello, darling.” She fluttered toward me with open arms and gave me a warm hug. Pointing to one of the three masts on the boat, she said, “Dr. Wen loves sails, but it worries me sick to think we have to ask the guests to move from side to side to keep the boat balanced like the last time Dr. Wen invited us out. Can you imagine one of them falling overboard? But the yacht rental people say the vessel has engines too and the crew will handle all that. If worse comes to worse, we can lower the sails and switch on the engines.”