by Betsy Tobin
“Wen? Are you okay?”
He turns and his eyes lock onto hers. At the same time, he is dimly aware of movement, of Little Dog coming towards him, and of the terrible glint of the knife. As he turns back towards Little Dog, he is surprised to feel not fear, but relief.
“Wen!” Angie screams just as the blade pierces his belly. It sears and tears, the pain far beyond anything he has known. He looks down, sees the knife buried in the folds of his clothes, feels a sickening jerk as Little Dog pulls it out again. Little Dog’s face is only inches from his own, and Wen stares into the depths of his pupils as the pain runs through him like a current.
“Did you really think you could swim away from all this?” says Little Dog quietly. “From all of us?”
Little Dog’s voice is barely audible, so low does he speak, as if his words are meant for Wen’s ears only. Wen shakes his head slowly from side to side, his hands moving instinctively to his belly. Against his bare fingers he feels his insides seep and burn. Perhaps he was not hollow after all. Little Dog takes a few steps backwards. Wen watches as he pulls a tissue from his pocket and methodically wipes the blade, before folding the knife and returning it to the inside pocket of his jacket. His task finished, Little Dog looks up at him.
“Your debt is paid,” he says then.
He turns and walks round to the far side of the car and climbs into the driver’s seat, just as Angie rushes forward. Wen feels his legs start to give, feels his body collapsing on itself. Angie catches him as he sinks to the ground.
“Wen! Oh God. Are you all right?”
Wen turns his face up to hers.
“Is okay,” he murmurs.
“You’re bleeding! We need an ambulance.”
“Suan le,” he says in Mandarin.
But Angie has not heard. She is busy speaking urgently into her mobile in words he cannot understand. Wen closes his eyes. It is finished, he thinks, as he slips past the edge of consciousness. His debt is paid.
November 2004
When they arrive at the hospital, the policeman parks the car and escorts Lili inside. He asks her to wait while he enquires at reception. After a moment, he returns to her.
“The victim’s in surgery. They’re only just doing the paperwork, so I don’t have a name. But the woman who brought him in is in the waiting room.”
He motions towards a second room and Lili walks slowly to the doorway. Across the room she sees Angie sitting on a chair, and in that instant she feels a sickening twist in her gut, as if it is she who has been knifed rather than Wen. Angie looks up and their eyes meet across the room. She jumps to her feet and rushes over.
“Lili!”
“Is he all right?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Angie’s eyes drift over to the policeman, who is standing a few paces behind Lili, regarding them both intently. He steps forward, taking out his pad.
“Would you mind if I asked you both some questions?”
Angie and Lili exchange a brief glance, then Angie nods.
“Yes, of course,” she murmurs.
“There appears to be a discrepancy about his name?”
“His name is Wen,” says Angie.
“Is that it? Just… Wen?”
“His surname is Zhang,” says Lili quietly.
The policeman turns to her briefly, then writes the name in his notebook, drawing a line underneath. He looks again at Angie.
“And you are?”
“His girlfriend.”
“Your name?”
Angie hesitates. The policeman looks up from his notebook.
“Smith,” she says. “Angelica Smith.”
Lili sees the policeman’s eye twitch slightly, but he writes down the name.
“His age?”
Angie darts a glance at Lili.
“Twenty-eight,” says Lili.
Again the policeman looks at her.
“And you are?”
“His sister.”
“Where is your brother from?”
“Hebei Province. In China,” murmurs Lili.
“And his occupation?”
Both women are speechless. The policeman looks from one to the other with a raised eyebrow.
“He’s a gardener,” says Angie quickly.
“A gardener,” the policeman repeats, making a note. “And you were with him at the scene of the assault?”
“I was in the car. I didn’t see the attack.”
“What were you doing at the train station?”
Again Angie hesitates, swallowing.
“He was meeting some friends. He owed them some money, and he was paying it back. But it was nothing illegal,” she adds hastily.
“Stabbing isn’t legal, Miss Smith.”
“No, of course not. I only meant… he wasn’t at fault.”
“No, miss. He was the victim here. We understand that. Do you know the names of the people he was meeting?”
“He didn’t say.” Angie keeps her eyes lowered to the pad.
“They were his friends?”
“They were associates, not friends.”
“Did you get a look at them?”
“Not really. I saw their car pull up. But it was dark.”
“What kind of car?”
“Small. Sort of… a hatchback.”
“Colour?”
“Dark. Maybe blue or black.”
“Right. Small dark hatchback.” He sighs. “How many people were in the car?”
“Three.”
“All men?”
“I believe so.”
“What race?” The policeman looks up at her.
“Chinese,” she says. “Like him.”
“Did you see them stab him?”
“No. He came back towards the car. Then he staggered and fell. That’s when I realised he was bleeding. By then they’d gone.”
“I see,” says the policeman, closing the pad. He looks at both women. “Is there any other information that might be relevant here? Something you may have forgotten?” he asks pointedly.
Angie shakes her head slowly from side to side.
“No.”
“Thank you for your time,” he says wearily. He nods and turns away.
Once he has gone, Lili turns to Angie, her eyes beseeching.
“It was them, wasn’t it? Why didn’t you tell him?” She asks.
“Because he wouldn’t want me to,” says Angie. Her tone is quietly forceful. Lili looks around the room desperately. But he may die, she thinks. Though in her heart she knows that Angie is right.
There is nothing now to do but wait. They sit side by side. A white-haired man wheels a cart by and gives them cups of milky tea. Lili sits holding hers between her hands without taking a sip. The warmth is comforting, even if the smell makes her nauseous. After half an hour, a young doctor comes through the door wearing green scrubs and a surgical mask that dangles below his chin. He has dark curly hair and a rough shadow of beard. He glances quickly around the waiting room, and when his gaze alights on Lili, he approaches them.
“Are you friends of Mr. Wen?” He asks.
“Yes,” says Angie rising to her feet.
Lili looks at the doctor: he cannot be more than her age. Yet he has the eyes of someone far older.
“He’s out of surgery and his condition is stable. He’s lost some blood, and the wound was fairly deep, but it just missed the wall of his stomach cavity. So he was lucky. With a bit of rest, he should be fine.”
“Thank you so much,” says Angie.
“Not at all.” The young surgeon gives a weak smile.
“May we see him?” asks Lili quickly.
“He’s in the recovery room at the moment. He’ll be transferred up to one of the wards in a few minutes’ time. You can see him then.”
Once again they sit and wait, until a plump nurse in her early fifties motions them to follow. They take a lift to the second floor, where she leads them through two sets of double doors.
“It’s after hours,” she says quietly. “So you can’t stay. But you can see him briefly.”
She leads them down a long dimly lit corridor flanked by darkened wards on each side. Each room has half a dozen beds, some empty, some screened off by curtains. The nurse walks ahead of them, her soft white shoes squeaking lightly on the polished floor. Finally she turns into a room on the right and moves to a bed in the corner, drawing back the curtain slightly. Wen lies asleep, his head tilted to one side, his face pale but otherwise peaceful. An IV tube runs from the back of his hand to a half-empty bag of dark fluid hanging from a metal stand beside the bed. Lili feels a surge of relief.
“He’s asleep,” says the nurse quietly. “Best not to wake him. You can come again in the morning during visiting hours.”
She draws the curtain closed once more and turns away. Lili stares at the curtain: each time she sees Wen it is more fleeting than the last. As if he is still just a figment of her imagination.
“Lili?” Angie lays a hand gently on her arm. “You look shattered,” she says. “Let’s go home.”
November 2004
When he wakes, the first thing Wen sees is the washed-out light of dawn. He is in a narrow bed made with crisp white sheets, surrounded on four sides by pale yellow curtains. The room is eerily quiet: perhaps this is an English version of heaven? He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, causing the pain in his abdomen to spike sharply. After a moment he hears soft footsteps approaching, and in another second a middle-aged nurse with tight blond curls is pulling back his curtains.
“Good morning, Mr. Wen,” she says, moving to check his IV unit. He smiles weakly. He has never been addressed in this way, and is unused to such politeness. He wonders fleetingly what Angie has told them. He shifts slightly in the bed and draws a sharp breath.
“Are you in pain this morning?” she asks. “I’ll just find out what I’m allowed to give you.” Without waiting for an answer, she turns and heads off down the hallway.
Wen looks around. There are three empty beds and two that are occupied in the room, their curtains drawn. A machine beeps loudly on the far side of the room, and for the first time, he hears the laboured breaths of the person opposite him. He swallows. His throat is sore, his lips badly parched. He had not thought to ask the nurse for a drink. But she soon returns carrying a tiny paper cup containing two orange pills, and a large plastic beaker of water. She helps him into a sitting position and he swallows the pills, draining the beaker.
“That should set you up,” she says.
“Thank you.” He watches as she turns to go. “Please? My friend?”
“Your friend went home last night. After you came out of surgery. She and the other lady will be back this morning.”
Wen nods, sorting through her words. Other lady? he wonders. Perhaps he misheard. He lies back against the pillow and closes his eyes. He wishes Angie were here now.
He sleeps again, and is woken some time later when a short Indian woman wearing a pale green uniform over a purple and gold sari brings him a tray of food.
“Breakfast,” she says, pulling a table over to his bed and placing the tray down in front of him.
The food looks as if it has been made yesterday: two slices of white toast, a small pool of congealed baked beans and a soggy cooked tomato.
She hands him a cup of milky tea and carries on wheeling her trolley down the hall. Wen sips at the tea and chews on a slice of cold toast.
What he would really like right now is a steaming bowl of dou jiang, the sweet soya milk he loved as a child, together with his stepmother’s homemade you tiao to dip inside. But such things are part of the person he once was, not who he has become. He eats as much as he is able from the tray, then pushes it to one side. A few minutes later, an older man wearing a dark blue suit and a white lab coat enters the room and pauses, glancing down at the clipboard in his hand. He is tall and thin with greying temples and an air of benign competence, and when he eventually raises his head, it occurs to Wen that perhaps he owes this man his life. The man crosses over to his bedside.
“I’m Doctor Stewart, the head of surgery here. How are you feeling, Mr. Wen?”
“I am very fine.” Wen eases himself up gingerly.
“May I take a look at your abdomen?” The doctor waits patiently for him to respond.
“Your stomach,” the doctor says, pointing. “Where you were injured last night? May I see?”
“Oh,” says Wen. “Yes.”
The doctor turns and pulls the curtain closed and steps forward. Wen slides the hospital gown they have given him to one side. The doctor carefully lifts the dressing and peers beneath.
“They’ve done a good job on the stitches,” he says, nodding. “It’s already beginning to heal.”
“You do this?” asks Wen.
“No. Not me. I’m the supervising physician. The registrar on call treated you last night. But the wound looks very clean. I don’t think you’ll have any problems.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“There’ll be some scarring. The knife ruptured your abdominal muscle, so you’ll have to take it easy for some time. Six weeks, at least. No contact sports. No heavy manual labour. Do you think you can do that for us?”
Wen nods. He has barely understood a word, apart from knife and six weeks. Something is easy, but he is not sure what.
“Thank you,” he says again.
“You’re very welcome. You were quite lucky, in the end.”
“Yes,” Wen murmurs. “I understand.” He has always been lucky.
Just then the nurse pokes her head in through the curtain.
“Excuse me, Doctor, there’s a policeman outside. He wants to know if he can have a word with Mr. Wen.”
“Yes, of course, we’re just finishing.” The doctor nods at Wen and turns away. The nurse pulls back the curtain, then motions to a uniformed policeman in the hallway to come forward.
“He’s all yours,” she says to the policeman, and walks out of the room.
Her words are chilling. Wen has absolutely no idea what to expect from the man now walking towards him. His eyes slide over the uniform: the badge and holstered baton and the radio on his belt. Wen nods to him a little nervously.
“Good morning, Mr. Wen. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the men who attacked you.”
“Okay.”
“You knew them? They were associates of yours?”
Wen considers lying, but does not know what information Angie has given them. Besides, he thinks, he is through with deceit.
“Yes. A little.”
“Can you tell me their names?”
“No. I do not know the names.”
“But you knew them,” says the policeman doubtfully.
“I know only one. But is not real name, I think.”
“And this name was…?”
“Little Dog.”
The policeman’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Little Dog,” he repeats.
“Yes,” says Wen.
The policeman sighs, then writes the words on a small pad of paper.
“These men. Were they Chinese? Like you?”
Wen nods.
“And you owed them some money?”
“Yes.”
“You arranged to meet, to give them the money, and then what? Was there a fight?”
“No.” Wen shakes his head.
“So what happened?”
Wen hesitates. What happened was fate, he thinks. It was his destiny. But he must offer some other explanation, one that will make this man think that what happened was an accident, and that it should not concern him any further.
“He drink too much,” says Wen finally.
Once again, the policeman’s eyebrows shoot up. But then he nods, as if this is an all too familiar response.
“He was drunk?”
“Verr drunk,” says Wen emphatically.
The policeman scratches the side of hi
s head with the pen.
“So he was drunk, and then what? You had an argument?”
“He get angry.”
“About what. Money?”
“Yes. I give him money. But he still not happy.”
“Why?”
Wen shrugs. “He is this kind of person. All the time drinking, all the time angry. Just like that.”
The policeman sighs. “Okay. I’d like you to look at some photos later, if possible. Perhaps this Little Dog is known to us. We may have him on file.”
“Yes,” says Wen. “Of course,” he adds, trying to seem helpful. He will look at all the photos they want him to. He will look and look and he will find no trace of Little Dog in their files. Because it is finished.
“Could I ask you about your status here, Mr. Wen? Are you working?”
Wen feels a rush of panic inside. “Yes,” he says. “I work as gardener.”
“How long have you been in the UK?”
“Almost two years.”
“And you have a visa?”
Wen freezes. The policeman is staring at him.
“Yes. I have family here. And girlfriend.”
The policeman makes a note. “We might need to take a look at your papers later, if that’s okay.”
“Of course,” murmurs Wen, lowering his eyes.
“Thank you,” says the policeman. “That’s all for now.”
“Thank you,” replies Wen.
The policeman nods and turns to go, but pauses.
“One more thing,” he says. “Your name has come up in a separate police inquiry. A detective from Liverpool would like to have a word with you later, if possible.”
Wen nods, his heart pounding. Up until this moment, he had thought luck was on his side.
November 2004