Bad Traffic

by Simon Lewis

How could a great car make you sob? But the peasant had to be jollied along.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Your mother is fine, you’re fine. I’ll get you back, you can save up and one day buy one of these.’

  The snotty sobs irritated Jian. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with of his own. At least the lad hadn’t watched a film of his daughter being killed. His hands tightened on the wheel and he pushed the accelerator. A box at the side of the road flashed.

  ‘That was a camera,’ said Ding Ming. ‘They took a picture. They know where we are.’

  You’re paranoid. Look, there’s a sign. Where are we?’

  They entered a suburb and Jian slowed. He felt uncomfortably conspicuous around traffic, pedestrians and buildings. He stopped at a red light.

  Ding Ming pointed. ‘Is that a police car?’

  The squad car, unmistakable in its waspish war paint, sat in a layby ahead, hazard warning lights blinking. Jian considered turning and taking off, but then they’d certainly pursue. He could outrun one, but how many more would come? Roadblocks would be set up, marksmen deployed.

  Perhaps after all, when the lights changed, he’d be able just to cruise past. His fingers drummed on the wheel. A man was crossing the road, pulling a dog on a lead. What was it with these people and their dogs? They appeared to dote on them more than children. Another car pulled up behind. Feeling boxed in, he shifted uneasily. Ding Ming was groping around the back seat.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m your hostage.’ The lad fumbled a handcuff onto a wrist and was about to snap it closed.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot.’ Jian snatched the cuffs away and sat on them. The lights changed to green. Ding Ming opened the door. Jian grabbed his collar and yanked him back.

  ‘I wasn’t going to go. I just thought I’d leave it open.’

  The car behind parped its horn. The map book slipped off Ding Ming’s lap, out of the crack in the door and into the gutter. Jian pulled the peasant’s head close. He said, ‘One two three. Get out, pick up the book and close the door.’

  The car behind tooted again.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ The peasant got out, picked up the map book, got back in and pulled the door to. Jian took the car forward at a stately pace, past the police car, which was empty. He turned off and pulled in.

  ‘Are you going to panic all the time?’ he said. ‘Are you going to run around like a monkey? You’re no use if you’re just going to lose your head. If things are getting on top of you, count to three.’

  He chucked the handcuffs in the back.

  ‘Don’t think you have to act fast. Think about what you’re going to do, then do it. Slow is sure and sure is fast. Read the map. Where are we?’

  ‘We’re in— the lad jabbered in English, a fluid twitter of birdsong. ‘We have to go through town and get on the – birdsong – which leads us to – birdsong – and then we head straight south on the – birdsong. And then we’re in the right province.’

  ‘About how far?’

  ‘Two hundred kilometres.’

  ‘We’ll get to the province, then take a better map.’

  Driving in the town was stressful. Back home Jian rarely bothered to indicate and, if he felt like going the wrong way around a roundabout, no one was going to stop him. But here he did not want to draw attention to himself, so was careful to try and obey the rules of the road. But really, there were just too many of them. Certain streets only allowed traffic in one direction, on others right or left turns were forbidden, this lane was for turning off, this for going straight, this just for buses. Traffic lights, pedestrian crossings and speed bumps turned the road into an obstacle course. The sports car didn’t like crawling in low gear and he kept stalling it.

  At least Ding Ming seemed to be throwing himself into his task. He found a page in the book which explained what road signs meant, and when a sign appeared would flick to it and frown through the explanation and shout, ‘You were meant to stop there’, ‘Dead end, dead end’, or, ‘this is a one way street, turn round, turn round.’

  They were aiming for a road labelled with a letter and the number 46. After an exasperating series of roundabouts, they appeared to be on it. Jian realised he was craned so far forward in the seat that his chin was almost touching the steering wheel.

  The road opened up. It was a scene with few human referents – just lines and lights, and, at the side of the road, illuminated numbers and diagrams. Robotic and entrancing, it was a system a person plugged his car into, a system designed for speed, and Jian put his foot down. He kept the speedometer hovering around the ninety mark, about a hundred and forty-five kilometres an hour. He’d never had such a feeling of swiftness in his life. Even trains didn’t go this fast.

  Ding Ming kept peering out of the side window. Jian could discern nothing that might be holding his attention. The roadside was deserted – no food stalls or cheap hotels, just a barrier, then fields. It reminded him of the wilderness back home, because that too was a harsh unpopulated environment a man felt all alone in.

  He realised that was the first time he’d thought of home in hours. He cast his mind over his recent life like a man probing a bad tooth with his tongue, inviting a lancing shot of pain. He could not recall with much accuracy the faces of his colleagues or the bodies of his girls. He looked at this figure who caroused and cultivated connections and hankered after his very own Audi, and he saw an inconsequential man with silly preoccupations. Here was a house with a big TV and a karaoke set and a PC, all showy and hardly used. What a daft frittering-away, all of it.

  A phone was ringing, he answered, and he asked how her studies were doing and what she was eating, and he was hurrying her along because he was drunk and didn’t want to be bothered. There was the pain, right there, and masochistically he jammed the sore point again – hurrying her along because he didn’t want to be bothered.

  ‘What are you doing?’ screeched the peasant, and Jian swung the car back into the right lane. ‘Concentrate.’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine. What are you looking at?’

  ‘Cows.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘They’re all over. You spot one and then you see lots, like mushrooms. I don’t like them. They look selfish.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘One of those cows has more land than a Chinese family. It’s disgusting. And another thing. I look out and all I see are cow fields. Where are the vegetables? And where are the factories and the mines? It doesn’t add up.’

  ‘The fields and factories and mines are in other countries.’

  ‘They’re cow people.’

  ‘What are you talking about now?’

  ‘They’re like their big stupid cows. Their life is the easiest it is possible to imagine: they wander around their lovely park, all day going munch munch munch. Nothing to worry about, just munching the stupid grass all day long in a lovely big field. And people like me, we are the rats. We live in the ditch and eat shit and watch out for the hawks, and our life is bitterness and struggle, and we’re terrified all the time.’

  ‘Rats don’t eat shit.’

  They shot past a police car parked in the hard shoulder.

  ‘Police, police.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  In the rear view Jian saw the squad car set off and flash its lights.

  (59

  No doubt he could outrun the police car, but that would solve nothing – other cars would join in the chase, road blocks would be set up, etcetera. His only chance was to avoid pursuit long enough to change vehicles again. He pushed the car harder and the speedo crept to a hundred and twenty.

  ‘What’s the next junction?’

  The peasant was rigid with fear. ‘You’re going too fast.’

  ‘The next junction… When’s the next junction?’

  The lad ran a shaking finger along a red line.

  ‘Thirty-four. Quite soon. We can go north or south from there.’


  ‘We’ll get there fast and he won’t see where we’ve gone, and there’ll be four options. We’ll turn around and go back the way we came, he won’t expect that. Put your seat belt on, then help me with mine.’

  The cop had started his siren, but the wail was growing fainter and the flashing lights in the rear view were diminishing. If they could get to the roundabout a few seconds early, there was a good chance. The tricky part would be getting off the road without losing control of the car.

  ‘There’s a sign for when a junction is coming up: three stripes, two stripes, one stripe… then you’re at the slip road. Oh, you’re going too fast, too fast.’

  Jian reminded himself to breathe. He felt he was about to take off. The road was a blur of flickering lines. He wasn’t even blinking, conscious that a tiny lapse could end in disaster. There was just the lines, all he had to do was stay inside them. He wondered how fast they were going, but did not dare take his eyes off the road to look at the speedo. A blue sign winked in and out.

  ‘Here,’ shouted the peasant.

  Jian stamped on the brake and swung the car onto the access road and the wheels screeched in complaint.

  The road canted upwards and veered away from the expressway but it was short, too short, and he was braking hard and the car shook, but still the speed was alarming and now here was the roundabout, a mound of grass and more road and lines. There was no way he could wrestle the car round it in time. He kept the car straight and a judder passed over it as it hit the mound, a rumble filled the shaking vehicle, and in moments they had clattered right across the grass to the other side. Jian took his foot off the brake and aimed for the nearest turnoff.

  The peasant was breathing in shaky gasps. He shouted with fear and exhilaration at being alive and showed Jian the map book, which, in his anxiety, he’d torn almost in two.

  Jian told him to find out where they were. He hoped there was a town coming up, so they could lose themselves in it. He had only been lucky and he was furious with himself – that was reckless. He had endangered the life of the youth.

  ‘You were breaking the speed limit. That’s why he wanted to stop you.’

  ‘The police will be looking for us. We’re going to dump the car and steal a new one.’

  ‘Not again. It’s impossible.’

  ‘What do you suggest? You want to take the train?’

  ‘It’s not my problem. You think of something.’

  ‘I could break into a house and steal some car keys.’ Jian tried not to sound as dismayed by this prospect as he felt. He didn’t want to prey upon the innocent and he had a low opinion of housebreakers. ‘It’ll be easy. They don’t even have bars on the windows.’

  They’ve got guards, dogs, guns.’

  ‘What does that sign say?’

  ‘Service station.’

  ‘We’ll find a car in there.’

  ‘Lao tian a… Heavens.’

  ‘You curse like a girl. Curse like a man. Say fuck your grandfather. Say it. Cao ni da ye de.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Cao ni da ye de.’

  ‘Don’t say that to me.’

  ‘Cao ni da ye de.’

  ‘Cao ni da ye de,’ said Ding Ming quietly.

  ‘That’s better.’

  ‘Cao ni da ye de, Cao ni da ye de.’

  ‘Feel better?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is this the service station here?’

  ‘Yes. Cao ni da ye de.’

  ‘We’re going to steal a car, and you’re going to do your trick again.’

  ‘Lao tian a.’

  (60

  Jian stopped in the darkest corner of the car park. He turned off the engine and listened to the silence and watched the illuminated dials fade.

  ‘Look.’

  The peasant had discovered a pair of trousers in the back footwell. They had a wallet inside, which Jian took. It was stuffed with notes, more than a hundred pounds, and there was a picture of kids and a woman. In the car boot, Jian found a can of petrol and a golf bag. He emptied the clubs out of the bag and put his equipment and the map book and the petrol can inside. He put the gun in his waistband and a police spray in his pocket.

  In a children’s playground he sat on the edge of a plastic fort and the peasant squatted at his feet.

  ‘I don’t know how to get into a car – just how to start one. And I don’t know how to break a steering lock.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. You’re always worrying.’

  But Jian was not confident. The car park was well lit and the service station windows looked out onto it. Video cameras were attached to walls and lampposts, and there were too many people around.

  ‘We’ll go for an old car, something clapped out. It won’t have alarms or a steering lock. I’m going for a look round. That means I’m going to leave you alone. Are you going to try anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll get us some food. Give me that coat.’ ‘Why?’

  ‘So I look less like a beggar. Don’t worry – I’ll give it back. Now empty your pockets.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to see that you haven’t got any money.’

  ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’

  ‘Sneak off and phone your boss, like you did last time. Show me.’

  ‘See? I have nothing to my name except a dictionary and a toothbrush.’

  Jian felt inside Ding Ming’s socks and around his crotch and patted him down. The lad winced when his bruises were pressed.

  ‘You should stop jumping out of cars. Wait here.’

  There were ten or so vehicles in the car park and they were all newish models. A BMW arrived and parked close to the doors, and two men in suits got out and stretched. A woman came out of the service station and got into a hatchback and drove onto an exit lane. There was no obvious weak point to the system, and no dark corner to operate in. At least there didn’t seem to be any security guards. He wondered if the staff parked round the back, but there seemed to be no way round there.

  He’d have to catch a lone traveller as he was getting into his car, squirt him with the policeman’s spray or wave a gun at him, throw him in the boot, and snatch the car. The guy could be safely disposed of in a field, trussed up to be discovered in the morning.

  The prospect did not fill him with enthusiasm. His conscience nagged at the idea of brutalising more civilians, though not enough to make him change his mind.

  An automatic door opened and he entered a warm lobby. The place reminded him of an airport waiting lounge. Unsettlingly bright lights made the goods on display look appetising and the people look ill.

  In a shop he filled a wire basket with sandwiches, crisps and bottled drinks, and took two polystyrene cups from a coffee machine. Catching his reflection in a mirror atop a rack of sunglasses, he was perturbed at how rough he looked – any security guard would certainly have him pegged as a troublemaker. Perhaps he was already being followed on camera. He picked out two England football shirts and a black hooded sweatshirt.

  There was a whole rack of maps. He selected four, to cover the entirety of the fat lady’s bum. At the counter he mimed smoking a cigarette and was given a pack at a scarcely believable price, you’d think they were made of gold. He bought three lighters, too.

  In a cubicle in the gents he changed into a football top. His shirt and purchases went in the golf bag.

  A bald man was taking a piss. Perhaps he was on his way out. Jian took his time washing his hands and followed him, with his hand resting on the gun in his pocket. He focused on the back of his neck and imagined threatening to hit him there. He halted when he saw the man join a woman and a child.

  The automatic doors opened and two uniformed men strolled in. One talked into a radio, the second strutted with his thumbs hooked on his utility belt. More police. Jian veered into a photo booth, pulled the curtain across and sat on the little stool. The damn security forces were everywhere – this whole poxy little country was locked u
p tight.

  He peeked out. The policemen proceeded down the corridor towards him. He imagined the reports that had come through on their radios: be on high alert for a middle-aged Chinese man, hostage-taker and car thief, armed, dangerous, desperate.

  The bald man and his family were heading for the exit and for a moment the policemen’s view was obscured – this was his chance to move. He stepped quickly out and into the café. He joined a queue. At least that meant his back was to them. He shifted forward, keeping his head down, and smelled coffee. A blonde girl in a green apron was addressing him. He pointed at a display and was given a cake.

  He stared at the girl to stop himself looking round for the police. She was pretty, plump with pale skin, and she smiled as she gave him his change. Strangely, she had two Chinese characters tattooed on her arm, nu and li – ‘girl strength’ – but the writing was childish and out of proportion.

  He took his cake to a corner and allowed himself to glance around. He was sitting next to a young couple, the entrance doors opened for the bald man and his family, and the policemen were strolling ever closer. He couldn’t see a back way out. He assumed there would be emergency doors, but opening them might set off alarms. He could not recall seeing any windows in the toilets. If the policemen challenged him, he would have to point his gun at them. Then what? Take a hostage? He imagined the people around him running, screaming, hiding. What a mess he was making.

  He opened a discarded magazine and pretended to study it, with a hand on his brow to obscure his features. There were photographs of cameras and cars and girls wearing almost nothing. It reminded him of Wei Wei’s vanity book. In his mind a grainy film ran again – his daughter cowering, a knife blade gleaming, blood pooling. Older memories surfaced, just as awful, of his wife’s dead eyes, blood running down a cheek, a smashed headlight. He ran a hard hand across his scrunched-up face. It was gone, he was here, he had work to do.

  He became aware of raised voices. The couple next to him were hunched over coffee, arguing. She was jabbing the table with a fake plastic nail and talking rapidly. She looked tired, and her mascara was beginning to run. Even beneath heavy make-up, a flush could be seen on her cheeks. He was rubbing his fingers along the sides of his nose and Jian guessed that all he was thinking was, ‘Please keep your voice down.’ His car keys glimmered on the table.