by A. Yi
The lights of the town shone in the distance as I walked around the mountain. Where there was no footpath I followed the main road, making my way back to the foot of the slope. I walked for hours, as if lost, until I came to a river. The water’s gurgling calmed me. I untied a petrol drum and with great effort rowed it downstream. Tired, I realised I didn’t have to row it and instead I floated in the darkness, deep into the belly of the universe.
As dawn crept across the sky, I spotted a tidal bore spitting white bubbles like a swimmer churning through the water. The fishy smell of the day’s first boat came next. I ate my breakfast, which roused my spirits, and felt my strength returning. A whistle sounded, beautiful, like a giant, his feet planted in the centre of the river, inhaling and letting out a sonorous cry. I went to buy a ticket and then took up my place on the deck, waiting for the waves to crash against the side of the boat and splash against my face. But I couldn’t stop sleep from taking me. I copied the guys from The Outlaws of Wulong Mountain and lit a cigarette before drifting off to sleep so that I would wake as it burned my fingertips.
But I opened my eyes to find my hand empty. Dead to the world, I must have flicked the cigarette away in my dream. My bag was still wedged between my body and the deck’s barrier. The rest of the passengers were similarly squeezed between luggage. The sun was high in the sky, melting us like in a furnace. I was grimy with oil and stank like hell.
I arrived, along with the boat, in a city that reeked of fish. Using my fake ID, I checked into a love motel and went to sleep with my shoes on, as if I was at home in my own bed. It was dark by the time I awoke. I’d probably only been asleep for a few hours, which the clerk confirmed when I checked out, as he charged me for four. So I made for the university to find a student room for the night. I felt safer there than in a hotel.
A few days later I bought a T-shirt, shorts and a massive cap much like the ones I’d worn before and took an illegal cab to the bridge over the Yangtze. There, I crossed into the next province. I told the driver to stop by the police station.
I walked in and charged my phone. A woman sat at the window, quietly stamping papers. With my eyes on my screen, I spoke.
‘What time do you close?’
‘At 5.00,’ she said, without looking up.
I switched off my phone and went outside to find another taxi. Another illegal cab took me back to the bridge. I had twenty unread messages, all from Ma, all saying the same thing: Son, come back and give yourself up.
It was an obvious police tactic and I was indignant. She could have refused to let them use her phone. How could she betray her only flesh and blood? What kind of mother was she? Then it struck me that she might not have been forced, but had thought of it herself. She felt guilt towards the family of the girl and society as a whole. That’s my mother all over.
I bought a ticket for the TV tower. As the lift rose higher, I saw the first neon lights going on in the town on the other side, car lights moving, starting and stopping. The details were fuzzy, so I got out my binoculars. They’d be looking for me down there, exhausted from chasing me. Maybe they’d stop and look up at the tower. He’s on the other side! they’d realise. But it wasn’t just a question of crossing the river. The county, city and provincial authorities would have to inform the local police, as well as coordinate with the relevant bodies on this side. Maybe they’d think it too much trouble and wait for the police back home to arrive. This one’s ours, guys.
I wanted to get a boat to the next place, but then I thought, why run if they’re not coming for me? So I stayed a few more days.
I got to know a spindly kid of twelve, his limbs like twigs. He wore baggy green army gear. I was eating some wonton at a place near my hostel at the time, when he approached looking anxious (I swear, looked as if he was about to die). His face twitched and he came running up as if moved by a gust of passing wind. I stood up to watch, but he pushed in behind me, pressed against the wall. Four young guys with leathery dark skin and fierce eyes came running in. They were covered in dragon tattoos and carried knives.
The hand clutching my T-shirt was shaking, I could feel it, but after a while he came out from behind me and sat down in front of me, this time with feigned confidence. I carried on eating my wonton, but I didn’t feel too comfortable. He watched me like a mother watching a baby nestled at her bosom, or like a boy from the village looking at his older cousin from the city. It was intimate somehow.
‘You still here?’ I said.
‘You’re not from around here,’ he said, and smiled, stroking my newly laundered white T-shirt. ‘Nice stuff.’
I felt disgusted, so I got the bill and left. But he followed me.
‘Go home,’ I said.
He laughed.
‘I’m busy. Don’t follow me.’
He stopped. I started walking in the opposite direction to my hostel. But I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Maybe he was an orphan? Maybe we could be brothers? Maybe he could help me out? But I told him to get lost.
The next day I went back to the same wonton place and again he appeared. We didn’t think it was strange.
‘I knew you’d come back,’ he said.
He watched me eat. I looked out to the street and ordered him a bowl. But he kept watching me. It was as if I ate funny, not like the people from around here. It was something to see.
Once we’d finished he asked, ‘Where to next?’
I didn’t know what to say. He was a bad kid, but cute. We went to the market, where he stroked the water pistols, his eyes looking up at me. I made to leave, but he tugged on my T-shirt, kind of embarrassed, like a spoilt little girl. Until I got my wallet out. We bought a few things and then went to the arcade. He flew a plane, his right hand jiggling the joystick anxiously, his left occasionally slapping the machine, his eyes transfixed and unblinking. I played a few times and kept getting killed off. I said I wanted to go, but he ignored me. I repeated myself, but he continued exploding bombs, pa-pa-pa, before eventually tearing himself away.
Outside, a crowd had gathered around a noticeboard. I went to take a look. A new wanted poster had gone up, the face of a coarse middle-aged man with droopy eyes who’d killed seventeen people. In the corner beside it was a small poster, a side dish to his main course: a young man who’d murdered his classmate. He may have only had one victim, but he looked more creepy, his hair fluffy, his beard stubbly, dressed in a dirty T-shirt, biting his cheeks, his chin turned up. His expression was detached, yet provocative. It was the first time I’d seen myself in three weeks.
HE WAS DRESSED IN FLIP-FLOPS AND GYM SHORTS AT THE TIME OF HIS DISAPPEARANCE.
I was worth fifty thousand.
‘Hey, he looks like you,’ the kid said with excitement, as if he’d just discovered the secret connection between all living things.
I patted him on the back of the head, batting him away. Having eaten, we went our separate ways. But I didn’t go far before turning around and, with darkness as my cover, following him. He seemed to be ruminating as he walked, until suddenly he laughed. He came to a slope, jumped down onto the half-finished road and climbed through an open window. The heaps of soil on either side were covered in weeds that were almost as tall as the old house. I climbed down onto the rooftop, moved some of the tiles and peered through the small crack.
A decrepit old man sat in a large armchair with his feet placed in a bucket of cold water. His eyes were closed. He held an old radio to his ear and was tuning the stations, pulling occasionally on the aerial. A cat lay quietly on the table. When the kid approached, it flew off and found another place to lie back down. He didn’t make a noise, but he had a definite swagger. He strode around with his hands on his hips, occasionally knocking himself on the head in frustration.
The kid then went to the cupboard and pulled out a leather suitcase. He moved the lamp to the table and started fiddling with a long piece of wire. He had his head cocked, just like me, listening. His shadow reached out across the floor. He went to the kitchen and
emerged with a spoonful of oil and carefully poured it into the lock. Then in went the wire again. Before long, the lock pinged open. Instead of looking over at the old man, he looked straight up at me. He seemed nervous. I froze and was going to pull back, but then I thought, if he’s seen me, he’s already seen me. So I continued to watch. He removed a bag tied with a rubber band and in it found a bunch of notes. He licked his fingers and counted. Then he put the stool up against the window. I was still lying on the roof. I waited for him to climb out and disappear into the night.
But instead he climbed back in. He went for the cat and, as if they were intimate friends, he took hold of it, cuddling it in his arms. He then took something from his pocket. Food, I thought. The cat closed its eyes and yawned, as if human in that moment. But it was a rope. The kid tied it around the cat’s neck. Then he tugged, pulling the two ends in opposite directions, strangling it. The cat’s mouth opened, its cries became a thick panting that floated on the air. He pulled the cat up so that it was standing, just to make sure it was really dead. Its back legs reached for the boy’s thighs. It scratched, like a mouse running in mid-air. Its fur was spiky. By the time the boy let go, exhausted, the cat was stiff like wood.
He was dripping with sweat, but he carefully placed the cat on the old man’s knee. He then climbed out and jogged away. I wanted to be sick. The old man was still listening to the radio, stroking his furry companion whenever they said something funny.
I decided I had to leave this city.
When I left my room the next day the kid was there, waiting for me.
‘How did you know where I was staying?’ I stuttered.
‘I followed you the first day we met.’
He smiled and I felt sick, my hairs standing on end. I decided not to collect the deposit but just take my bag and leave. But he grabbed my sleeve.
‘I’ve got no one else to play with.You’re a good guy. No one else pays me any attention.’
I brushed him off, but he pulled harder as tears and laughter fought against each other on his face. I hit him and he let go, wounded.
‘I knew you’d leave.’
The intimacy of his words knocked me dull and I watched him disappear.
As he walked through the gate, I called down to him. He turned and answered. I motioned for him to speak first.
‘Brother, I know who you are.’
‘How much do you want?’
‘I’ve got money. I made a few yuan last night.’
‘Then go and have fun, don’t mind me.’
‘I want to buy you something. Guys like you on TV always wear a tie. I came to ask if you like red.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘I have to give it to you. Don’t go.’
He watched me as he retreated, afraid I’d leave. He then turned and ran. I went back to my room and got my bag. By the time I was on the street, he had gone.
I walked for a bit and hid in the shade of a tree. But real brotherhood wasn’t easy to find these days, so I took out my binoculars to look for him. People walked back and forth, forming a moving barrier. I couldn’t see him. I was about to put the binoculars away when the kid hurried into view with three large policemen. They were waiting at a pedestrian crossing. The kid walked with care, smearing his hands on his dirty army uniform. He look looked up at the policemen and chatted. Shameless.
My hands shook and drops of sweat ran across me like hungry mice. I watched his animated expression as he pointed in my direction and I felt I was sinking into the ground beneath me, while the boy, a god, placed a curse upon my head. One of the policemen was tapping at his cheek with his index finger. He looked over and then started waving. The two other policemen took up the flank and charged straight towards me. Only then, as the reality that I was about to be caught hit me, did I know to put away my binoculars, sling the bag on my back, tighten the straps and run for my life.
My legs thudded against ground. They felt powerless and far too heavy. It was like running on cotton wool, or through deep water. But I kept running. Behind me: ‘Wait! Stop!’ They were flustered. I heard the panting. I was running in the hundred-metre finals at the Olympics: my arms made a scissor motion, my head pecked through the air. People kept stopping to watch. I was the wind against their cheeks.
The police stopped and gasped, ‘Stop or we’ll shoot!’
Go on, then. I was already at one with time and matter, my body running for the sake of running.
I ran at the edge of time itself. Time had to me always felt sticky; the past was the present, the present was the future, yesterday, today and tomorrow were one boundless, mashed-up whole. But now it was an arrow shooting out in front, a point out from which it fired. It was bright, brave, fearless. In the diabolical light of the sun, it pierced through all possible futures, burned up into a black slag heap of the past. I would run, I would crush it. It smelt like a cow condensed into one piece of beef jerky, every bead of sweat suspended in the air collected into one.
A black car crashed and crumpled into pieces like a mirage. It was spluttering like all old cars, old and shabby, as if it could fall apart at any moment and reveal its wounds on the street right there. But it came out of nowhere, came hurtling towards me from a distance. Six seconds. I was forced into a side alley. Interfering busybodies. A swarm of scooters followed me. They smiled covertly at the police, ready to be heroes, but they were pathetic. They forced me to throw coal scuttles, beer bottles, broken chairs and even prams that may or may not have contained children. Every few steps a wooden door was flung open, warm looks of concern, promises of old wardrobes, hidden cubbyholes, secret tunnels, invitations in. But I’d rather die right there on the street.
I trusted no one, not since that dream on the train.
That afternoon, I ran through a labyrinth of alleyways. I remember silence, sunlight through the eaves and spread across walls, my shadow brushing past. It was as surreal as a film. Those scooters (masterpieces of modern machinery) were about to kick their hooves and sink their teeth and claws into my arse.
I stopped suddenly. As if God had spoken to me. I slipped into a dark corner. A motorbike came driving towards me, ridden by a smart-looking cop. He came through the narrow passage as if he was on an open road. A siren followed. I waited for the whirlwind to break on top of me, then rushed forward and pushed. The bike veered towards the wall like a decapitated dragon. Its front wheel chomped through a pile of bricks before coming to a halt. The body of the bike spun one hundred and eighty. The policeman fell like a sack of cement and there he lay by the wall, battered and flattened, until the bike grew bored and spun aside. He sat up, brushed away the dirt and tried to get up. But his eyes rolled back and he slumped. A drop of water fell from the sky and cracked in front of him. He closed his eyes. His chest heaved. People came rushing out.
‘Someone went running that way. Quick!’ I said.
I walked away briskly, then spotted an unlocked bike. I rode furiously towards the market, threading through the crowd and into a busy grocery shop. From inside I spotted a taxi. I pulled open the back door.
‘Where to?’ the driver asked.
I took out my phone and secretly pressed it between the cushions in the back seat. I made my excuses and got out. I waited for the taxi to pull away and then started in the direction of the train station freight yard.
I followed the path by the tracks, my back to the station. They would close all roads, but they wouldn’t think of the train tracks. That that’s how criminals like me escape. Right now they’d be asking themselves a stupid question: save their colleague or go after me?
Suddenly, I felt all grown up.
The Ending
Being on the run is like playing a game of hide-and- seek. I’d knock on doors and run away, then they’d come running after, a wildness in their eyes. But I’d leave them in the middle of nowhere. I lost a shoe in my escape. Until the day I saw the sign for T— City. I stopped short, numb. So this had been my destination all along, the da
y I killed Kong Jie and boarded the train. This was where my cousin lived. I thought I’d been moving without a plan, but my subconscious had been drawing me here. I was so tired I could barely control myself, like an ox after a day toiling in the fields that in the distance makes out the outline of the village.
I caught a bus to the outskirts of town and then scrabbled across a small mountain covered in scrub and trees. In the distance, a winding road cut across the plain. Every now and again a vehicle would speed along it like a ghost. To the west sat an orphaned house. My cousin’s marital home, one floor had now become two. But they had yet to clad the top storey with the requisite ceramic tiles. I could see the dark red bricks and the aluminium windows set into them. A melon shack stood beside the road and four bare-chested, rugged men sat playing poker. They looked like plain-clothes policemen to me. The first one cooled himself with an electric fan, drawing electricity from the shack. Another bore his back, pink and delicate.
The door to the house was pulled shut and no one seemed to be at home. I waited until midday, when smoke started puffing from the chimney. Insects began hopping like tightly wound springs. I felt cut off, as if I was hanging from one of the beams, my mouth taped shut, watching as my family sat round the table at dinner, talking.
Knowing I could die at any moment, I had to see her.
She hadn’t changed since the last time I was here to attend her wedding: two puckered hard pears for breasts, a body shrivelled and legs crooked with rickets. She walked us along this road to say goodbye, turned back for one last look, a wave, her eyes filled with tears. Her wave slowed, before resting in mid-air. A forever goodbye. But she came back when Pa died, with Auntie on her arm. Auntie’s cancer was worse than Pa’s, but she held on to life more firmly. With her white hair and determined expression, she would never surrender. My cousin cried until her eyes were puffy like peaches.
I didn’t know what to do at the funeral, but I was pushed up on stage against my will. I should cry, I knew this, but my eyes were dry. Ma and Uncle were the same. Uncle sat by the coffin, smoking cigarette after cigarette (he would later quit, when we realised the smoking caused his cancer). Ma seemed to waver, her steps heavy. The other women in the family were embarrassed to cry when they saw her. The funeral was an obligation. Once my cousin led away the heft that was my auntie and the spattering of fireworks had been let off, the guard of honour made its way from the bridge. Only then did I let the tears come.