Bad Traffic

by Simon Lewis

  It was raining hard, and the windscreen wipers sloshed water. The broken white line at the centre of the road shot into the distance, but that was all that could be discerned with any certainty. The road was lined with – nothing. A plain of mottled green and purple rolled as far as the eye could see in all directions, before being swallowed in mist. No people, no buildings, not even trees. It was a wilderness.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Do you want a cigarette?’

  ‘Why are you driving this car?’ But as soon as he asked the question, the matter clarified. ‘You’ve stolen it.’

  In his alarm Ding Ming forgot his aches. He had been kidnapped by a dangerous lunatic. He did not care for what purpose, he had only one concern, which was to get out. He opened the door and a howling wind buffeted him. Rain pelted his face. Papers were swept up and dashed about, and ash from the cigarette burned his arm.

  He lurched towards the blur of the road, but something pulled him back. He tried again, and found himself once more restrained. Jian reached across and pulled the door closed.

  ‘Idiot,’ he said. ‘You’ll kill yourself.’

  The seat belt had checked him. The effort left him exhausted, and his head felt more fragile than ever. ‘Lao tian a… Oh heavens,’ he said weakly.

  ‘You’ve ruined my cigarette,’ said Jian. ‘Let me tell you how it is. I want you to find a man’s address.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You find it for me. In here.’

  Jian showed him Kevin’s black address book. ‘You’re looking for Black Fort.’

  ‘A Chinese name?’

  ‘Look for it in there. In English. Black Fort.’

  ‘What if it is? Then you’ll take me back?’

  Jian dropped the book in his lap.

  ‘Is it there?’

  ‘You want me to find an address for you and then you’ll take me back?’

  ‘You find the address. You get me there. Then I’ll take you back.’

  What a fate, to be at the mercy of this madman.

  ‘You don’t have a choice. If you don’t help me, you don’t get back. Look around. Which way will you go? You were out for ages, you have no idea where I’ve been driving. You could set off in the wrong direction. Maybe wolves will catch you. Or, if you’re really unlucky, cops.’

  Jian yawned. He settled forward in the seat and shook his head. ‘Help me, then I’ll take you back. It’s your only chance.’

  ‘You stole this car. The police will catch you.’

  ‘Find that fucking address.’

  Jian was scowling blearily across. He yawned again and Ding Ming realised he was fighting fatigue.

  Ding Ming wished he had never learned English. To placate the lunatic, he flipped through the book, looking for Chinese characters, but there were none. Perhaps the name was labelled under its odd English translation. There were no entries at all under B. Under F there was a Fianb and Fian, or perhaps Frank and Fran, Mister Kevin’s spidery handwriting was not east to decipher. In Pinyin, the system of transliterating Mandarin Chinese into English, the name began with an H, so he tried there. He tried under C for Chinaman, E for Easterner and O for Oriental then went through all the names from A to Z and back again. It didn’t take long, Kevin didn’t have too many friends.

  ‘Is it there?’

  He felt nauseous, aware that every second he was borne deeper into wilderness. The van drifted off the road and bumped over the verge. Jian yanked the wheel. Ding Ming lurched and the book slid off his lap into the footwell. He said, ‘Watch the road.’

  ‘Is it there?’

  Ding Ming flicked despondently back and forth. As well as lists of addresses there was a day planner, with scribbled notes like ‘dentist’, ‘farm’ and ‘vet’, and there was even a foldout map of the world, divided by time zone. Automatically, his eyes found China. It was not in the centre of the page, where he was used to seeing it, but out towards the edge.

  ‘There’s no address. It’s not there, there’s nothing. Take me back, please. Take me back.’

  The van veered again. Ding Ming clicked the seat-belt release, opened the door, and jumped.

  (40

  His shoulder hit first, a thud that he felt all the way to his feet, then the impetus took him and more impacts jolted his body until it seemed he would be broken apart.

  He found himself motionless and tasting earth. He got to his feet. He was winded and his head was spinning. His body had made a great smear ploughing across the grass. He had been lucky: he had slid right between two boulders.

  The wheels of the van squealed as it braked. Ding Ming sprinted heedlessly away. The steep incline was carpeted with wiry bushes that scratched his ankles, it was like trying to wade across fibreglass. He tripped and the plants stung his face.

  He scrambled up and looked round. The road below was a grey strip winding along the bottom of a valley and vanishing into fog. There was no sign of the van. All around was the wildest landscape he had ever seen, offering no shelter or hiding place.

  He stilled the yelps of alarm that filled his head and tried to work out what to do. He had to find Kevin, and to find Kevin he had to find the sea. Perhaps he had not been taken far, perhaps he had only been unconscious for a few seconds. He would continue climbing, and from that ridge he would find out. He could see the view in his mind, the sweep of the bay and the glimmering mud, and because it was so vivid there the conviction rose that it must be true.

  Climbing with his head lowered, rain trickled down his neck. Slithers of water seeped into his shoes. The raindrops were not plump and warm like at home, but small and cold, and they came lashing in from an oblique angle. The dismal sky seemed a weight that hung just above his head. He looked up and the pale peak seemed to have mockingly receded.

  He heard voices, snatches borne on the wind – a line of song, a chatter of laughter. There was something so unexpected about them, he first thought they were inside his head. No, they were real, people were coming. Bulky figures breasted the ridge, carrying sticks.

  Ding Ming threw himself to the ground. He was in a shallow gully, and by rolling to the side he was able to lie out of sight. But his whole body was now being jabbed by the infernal bushes.

  Boots tramped closer, trousers swished. There were four of them, walking in single file, and they wore waterproofs, and carried rucksacks on their backs like soldiers. Perhaps they were hunters returning from an expedition with packs full of dead game, or landowners, prowling for poachers.

  A woman said, ‘I believe I can see the faintest smidgeon of blue sky.’

  ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen’, sang a man, ‘go out in the morning rain.’

  When they were past, Ding Ming sat up and pulled branches off his wet backside. The group were on a path, one he had missed, marching on enormous shoes. The path veered up again and took them back over the ridge. When he was sure that they would not hear him, he rose and struggled on.

  The peak came upon him suddenly – he looked up, and he was there. He was above the fog now and could see for kilometres.

  He was in a vast and forbidding emptiness. There was only more grass and scrub, on more hillsides, going on and on, fading into blueness, then the grey nothing. It was horrific – it was what death would look like.

  It occurred to him that it was really quite possible that he was going to perish. If he fell over and turned his ankle, if he simply sat down, that would be it – the elements would kill him. It struck him as odd that he could contemplate this possibility in such a theoretical way, without it worrying him. No, he only worried when he thought about the terrible effect, both emotional and financial, that his demise would have on his wife and his family. He was a man with responsibilities: many others depended on him. Despair and defeat were luxuries he could not afford.

  He could see the walkers again. They were certainly headed somewhere, and any somewhere was better than this huge nowhere. For want of any better plan, and because the fact of other peopl
e was a comfort, Ding Ming set off after them.

  His body and clothes were so filthy that he was effectively camouflaged, and he knew that as long as he was careful to be quiet and to stay away from the skyline, they wouldn’t spot him. There was little chance of losing them – their bright kagools would be visible for kilometres – but when they disappeared over another hilltop he could not help feeling anxious and quickened his pace.

  He thought about Kevin, the man’s flabby bulk coming vividly to mind. Now it represented security, how rash he had been to be repulsed by it. Had Kevin not kept him safe from the policeman? Did Kevin not know where his wife was? Kevin was all he had, Kevin was shelter. He tried to recast the man’s actions in a favourable light. The big man paid well and promptly and handed out bonuses for good workers. He was a tough but fair employer, just a bit lonely.

  Still the ramblers rambled, striding the emptiness with the confidence of ownership, down a valley and up a hill and down another valley. Ding Ming followed with his arms crossed over his chest. At least he was not getting any wetter. He was already saturated.

  He started stumbling and falling over. He could no longer control his shivering and it was hard to complete a thought. He no longer worried about being seen. Everything was a blur but for the bright kagools, which stood out like buoys in an ocean.

  The group strolled to a road, and it dawned on Ding Ming that it was rather familiar. Why, this was the very first hill he’d climbed, all those hours ago. There were the bushes he had trampled, here the gully in which he’d hidden.

  The group had tramped in a giant pointless circle, and for no reason at all. It was baffling and infuriating. As Ding Ming watched, they passed the rocks he’d slid between when falling from the van, and the woman pointed with her stick at the marks his body had made on the turf.

  What a stupid waste of time. Ding Ming slapped his cheeks with consternation. This world was not merely uncaring, it was malevolent, a player of monkey tricks.

  Feeling sorely hard done by, Ding Ming followed them to a car. Crouched behind a bush he watched them make a jolly picnic inside, with sandwiches and steaming thermoses. He heard snatches of laughter and the crumpling of packaging.

  They were in a car park surrounded by dripping trees. A building in the corner looked quaint and self-sufficient – the local equivalent, perhaps, of a pagoda. Its overhanging roof offered shelter from the rain. Ding Ming dashed from tree to tree, then flattened himself against the brick wall.

  A woman from the car approached, a robust, clomping figure. Fearing she was coming to challenge him, he prepared to slink into the bushes. But she went inside the building and that’s when he spotted the stick-figure signs. He was outside a public toilet.

  The woman came out, the car drove away, and Ding Ming slipped into the gents. He found an astonishing opulence. The space was larger than his family home and much better equipped, with electric lights, fancy plumbing and running water.

  Having slaked his thirst from a tap, he washed face, arms and feet in a glorious stream of hot water. There was no plug, so he stuffed the plughole with a sock and filled basin after basin. There was a mirror over the sink, but he was careful to avoid considering it until he’d finished.

  His upper lip was swelling where it had been split by Jian’s punch. It was tender to the touch. Bruises on his shoulder were the result of his tumble from the van. Even Kevin’s slap had left its mark, a cut where the man’s ring had nicked his cheek. His shirt was stained with the blood of a dead man. He looked tired, slovenly and furtive.

  He dried himself under a hot-air dryer. It was a clever device – certainly these people had a genius for convenience – but it didn’t work properly, it kept switching off. Using the paper towels would have been easier, but he had a nagging feeling that an attendant would appear and charge him for them. Great good fortune should not be pushed.

  He locked himself into a cubicle. At least here he did not have to deal with the vastness outside. He slumped and let his thoughts drift, enjoying the after-sting of the hot water. It was the first time he’d been really comfortable in what felt like weeks. He determined to sit in this reassuringly compact space for a few minutes and recover from his ordeal, then work out what to do.

  He awoke with a start. His worries thudded down like blows and he slid off the toilet. The light outside was dying, he must have slept for many hours. He could not believe what he had done, he felt guilty – as if he’d let everyone down.

  He was no further towards any solutions… just hungrier. Night would come soon, and then he would be colder. He wished he could return to his dreams.

  Clearly, he could not stay here. Men might come to use the toilet, someone would arrive to lock the place up. And if he was discovered, who knew what would happen? They might kick him for sport, one would hold him down while another phoned the police.

  Outside, the sky was the colour of mildewed sheets. It had stopped raining, but he could feel sogginess in the air. He peeked into a litter bin to see if the walkers had left any edible scraps, but it held only packaging. A flock of birds flitted from tree to tree and he wondered how he would go about catching one. They flew over a dirty white van and Ding Ming caught his breath.

  Fearing it a mirage conjured by desperation, he was reluctant to allow himself hope. He approached as if happening upon it casually, expecting it to resolve itself into an unfamiliar vehicle. But no, it continued to look like Kevin’s van. The evidence grew incontrovertible – there was the mud-spattered back door, the dusty windows, the rusted wheel arch.

  But there was no Kevin inside. Instead, there was, of course, the madman Jian. He was collapsed in a dead sleep in the driver seat, head on his shoulder with his mouth open and the tip of the tongue protruding, snoring as loud a chainsaw.

  So, after Ding Ming had jumped, the man had driven on for barely a kilometre. He had simply pulled up at the first discrete spot and fallen asleep. He had not even taken the time to cover himself with the blanket, take off his jacket or lock the passenger door.

  The madman was better than the wilderness, just – as least he offered a chance. Ding Ming got in and tapped him politely on the shoulder. Jian grunted, stirred and looked around, and Ding Ming could almost see the man’s own concerns banging into his consciousness.

  Ding Ming said, ‘I know where Black Fort is.’

  (41

  The events of the previous night were still fresh in Ding Ming’s memory, but the chronology was confused. The smell of fresh, turned earth, a slither of moon glimpsed through trees, the feel of a spade handle, the sting of a slap, Kevin saying something about a rock, Black Fort saying, ‘I’ll go to the farm.’

  It was the only entry under H, and it took up the whole page. ‘HOPE FARM’ was scrawled in capitals, in red biro. The address underneath was in spidery running script: ‘BLOODGATE HILL, SOUTH CREAKE, NORFOLK’. Under that, in blue, in the same hand but written more patiently, were what looked like directions. ‘A435 FOLLOW SIGN FOR SC LEFT AT WAR MEMOREAL TRACK ON RIGHT’.

  Ding Ming jabbed the page with his finger. ‘That’s where he is.’

  Ding Ming wondered how sure he was. Black Fort might have said, ‘I’ll go to the firm,’ or perhaps it was ‘I’ll goat the palm,’ which might be a dialect phrase. He was pretty sure, say eighty percent sure. But of course, just because this was the only farm listed in the address book didn’t mean it was the one Black Fort was talking about. It might be – but it might not be. So, sixty percent. And maybe Black Fort was lying to Kevin, and even though he said he was going to the farm, he actually wasn’t. Or maybe he changed his mind, and later decided after all not to go to the farm. Fifty? Forty?

  ‘I’m one hundred percent positive. Now I’ve told you where he is, will you take me back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you mean, no? I’ve helped you.’

  ‘You’re going to get me there. You’re going to read a map.’

  ‘Why can’t you read a map?’

/>   ‘I can’t tell a thing in this language, it’s all squiggles to me.’

  ‘How are you going to be able to take me back?’

  ‘I’ve got an address. Your boss texted it to me.’

  ‘Well, how did you read that address?’

  ‘I didn’t, did I? I showed it to a cabbie.’

  ‘And then you beat him up.’

  ‘What else could I do? I didn’t have any money. Can you read a map in English or can’t you?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Then there’s no problem. You read a map, you get me there, then I’ll take you back.’

  ‘It could be anywhere. Anywhere at all.’

  ‘This isn’t China. This is a tiny little country. You could drive from one end to the other in a day. You’ll be gone a few hours, if that. When I take you back, tell them you escaped, wandered round, and found your way back by yourself. They won’t be angry with you. They’ll be angry with me. Tell them I’m crazy.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘They saw that you didn’t come willingly. When I return you, you won’t get into trouble.’

  ‘Where is this map?’

  ‘There’ll be one in here somewhere.’

  ‘You haven’t even got a map?’

  ‘Have a look round.’

  ‘You said you had a map.’

  ‘I never said I had a map. Look in there.’

  In the glove compartment Ding Ming found a pair of sunglasses with one arm missing, a mobile phone charger, pens, sweet wrappers, a dog lead and a chew toy. He pulled a newspaper out of the door compartment and was confronted by an enormous pair of breasts, staring out at him just like that. They seemed out of proportion – fascinating, but wrong. The girl they belonged to smiled invitingly.

  ‘Like a cow,’ said Jian, and Ding Ming stuffed the paper back in the door. He hoped his wife was getting on alright and having more luck than him. There was no map here. He cursed. ‘Lao tian a.’

  ‘We’ll drive until we find a town and buy one,’ said Jian, and started the engine.