by Simon Lewis
Song said, in Chinese, ‘Why don’t you heat it in the microwave?’
‘Oh yes, I’ll do that.’
It was typical. The girl was always offering advice, and Wei Wei sensed a familiar subtext – You’re just a hick, I’m a proper city woman.
‘Not that one. You press this button here.’
‘I know,’ said Wei Wei.
Paul was considering the magazine. ‘She is far too skinny.’ He looked at Wei Wei as he said, ‘I like curvier girls.’
‘Nice dress,’ said Song.
Wei Wei said, in English, ‘It’s pleasantly understated.’
‘Huh?’
‘It means simple and uncomplicated.’
‘Not showy,’ said Paul. ‘Just elegant and sexy.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And ridiculously expensive,’ said Song. She took the drinks out and the boyfriend said he would follow her up in a minute, he was just going to root round for some biscuits.
Wei Wei watched her food rotate in the microwave, drumming her fingers. ‘Root is a verb?’
He put a hand on her arm and whispered, ‘I’m crazy about you.’ The hand moved to her shoulder. She consciously emptied her face of expression as he blundered on. ‘The way you move, the way you look in that nightdress, how you tip your head when you’re thinking.’ His fingers touched her cheek. ‘I totally agree with what you say, about living like an artist. Living in the moment.’ She was backed against the counter, there was nowhere to retreat to. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you think about that?’
The microwave pinged.
‘Excuse me. Dinner.’
He moved in to kiss her. His greedy tongue reminded her of a cow’s. Two in one day – it was unprecedented. But neither, of course, was suitable. His chin was stubbly and he had an offputting odour. She thought of kisses as having a colour – she’d read it in a book – and this one was definitely pale green.
She grew aware of movement in her peripheral vision, then squealed as she was drenched with cocoa. A cup clattered to the floor. Song had returned, and caught them, and now, having hurled her drink, was standing with her knees together, her face crinkling. Wei Wei brandished her magazine, swatting at the air with the confused idea that this troubling couple could be made to disappear like wasps.
Song’s expression hardened and she pointed an accusing finger at her boyfriend. To avoid a tedious scene, Wei Wei ran to her room and propped her table against the door. It wasn’t as if she asked for this, she reflected, it was just the sort of thing that seemed to happen to her. She was still hungry but thought it best to avoid the kitchen for the time being, so she skinned up a joint and watched a recording of ‘EastEnders’ on her little television. She liked that there were all these strong women who castigated wavering menfolk, and hoped that Song was giving Paul a similar hard time.
But when she came down for breakfast the next morning to closed, hostile faces, she discovered that a picture of the drama in which she was cast as a rapacious harridan had been circulated and accepted. She was informed with a note, written in red capitals, and signed by all her housemates, that she had been ‘sent to Coventry’. What a phrase. It seemed that English, just like Chinese, concealed unpleasantness with quirky euphemism. Well, she told herself, it wasn’t as if she spoke to those dullards anyway.
Her what-the-hell defiance lasted the restaurant’s evening rush, but as her shift wore on she felt her spirits sag. Her qipao dress was constricting, the customers banal, the tips measly. Perhaps recent experiences had left her more sensitive to certain signals, but it occurred to her that she really didn’t like the way twinkly-eyed old Mister Li watched her. Really, it was too much. This was not the sort of place a girl might be discovered by a model scout or acting agent. She was just wasting her time. Skulking in the ladies – it was the the only opportunity to sit down – she expressed her feelings by writing ‘My boss is a colour wolf’ in the grouting between wall tiles. She was dull, the job was dull, she was not being all she could be, and had no idea how to start discovering the new her.
So she was almost pleased when, leaving the restaurant, she saw the yellow car again. The Chinese guy leaned against it with one ankle tucked behind the other and hands behind his back.
‘Why didn’t you come in?’
‘I wasn’t hungry.’
‘Then your trip is wasted. You’re not my type.’
He gave her a red rose. It was not the usual cheap article guys fobbed you off with, but the real deal, a full bloom with a heady scent. ‘Thanks. Not sure what to do with it, though.’
‘Keep it by your bed.’
‘Maybe in the bathroom. Goodnight.’
‘At least tell me your name, beautiful stranger.’
‘You can keep calling me that.’
She walked away. She heard footsteps behind her and planned her next move. It was hard to strike the right balance, in English, between cutting and flirtatious. Perhaps she should say ‘Can’t you take a hint?’, or just ‘What is it now?’ as if he were a pesky puppy.
When her pursuer was right behind her, she swivelled on one heel, affecting weary resignation with head cocked to one side. But it wasn’t the handsome Chinese man. It was creepy Paul. He looked broody and furtive.
‘How did you find out where I work?’
‘You left a flyer. Me and Song split up. So we can go out.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Hey, you can’t just—’
‘Yes, I can.’
He gripped her elbow and squeezed and she smelled booze on him. She wriggled. ‘Let go.’
‘Yesterday you wanted to—’
Paul jerked as he was grabbed from behind. His arms flailed as he was twirled round. The Chinese guy punched him with the base of an open hand and Paul fell, clutching his face. The Chinese guy cracked him with an elbow. His expression was impassive, like that of a man solving a problem. She grabbed his arm and placed herself in his eye line.
‘Don’t. Please don’t. Stop it.’
The guy jabbed a heel into Paul’s foot.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
He stepped back and ran his hands through her hair. They watched Paul stagger away. She felt giddy. Something dark in her had liked what she had seen and she was angry about it.
‘My name’s Black Fort. Come for a drink.’
‘I’m going to see that he’s alright.’
‘Tomorrow, then.’
After that he picked her up most nights. He took her to hotels, which was a lot better than going home. It turned out he was a hoodlum, with a gang and dreams of unlimited wealth and respect. His unsuitability was exciting, it made her feel like a tragic heroine. Every song now seemed addressed to her. Nothing was banal any more. Perhaps, after all her false starts, her life here really was beginning.
(68
Wei Wei cowered, her legs drawn under her, arms behind her back, ankles tied with flex. Her eyes were bright and damp. She said, ‘No, please, no,’ over and over again.
Black Fort pointed a camera phone at her and she slid back, propelling herself along the concrete floor with bare feet, until she was pressed against a brick wall.
‘No, please.’
Six Days grabbed a hank of hair and yanked her head back. He wore baggy black clothes, a scarf across his face, a woolly hat pulled down low over his forehead and wraparound plastic sunglasses over his eyes. A knife blade gleamed.
Her eyes widened. She thought to herself, this is it, I’m going to die, I’m going to die and there’s nothing I can do about it. He let go and hair flopped across her face.
‘No, please. No.’ A tear ran down her cheek. A mental voice screeched, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die. Six Days leaned over and down, and with a rapid underhand motion drove the knife a dozen or so times into her torso.
Wei Wei’s mouth opened and closed and a shudder passed across her. She s
lumped and blood pooled rapidly beneath her. She felt Black Fort’s warm breath on her cheek as he brought the camera right down to her face.
She thought, this is it, I’m going now, I’m dying. Nothingness seemed to close in. Her eyes unfocused. The blur that was Black Fort drew away and snapped the phone closed. It was over.
She sat up and said, ‘Cut!’ and the brisk syllable helped banish that grim persona. It was an uncomfortable place she had inhabited and she was disorientated as she came back into herself. She stretched and shook briskly like a cat coming out of water.
She untied her ankles and removed the tape holding the blood bag to her stomach. A fish hook snagged in the bag was attached by fishing line to her thumb. When, out of shot, she’d jerked her hand, the hook had ruptured the bag and fake blood had spurted in satisfactory, gory fashion.
That had been her idea, as had the extra lights and the two rehearsals – the gang had proved quite clueless in this regard. She’d bought the stage knife from a theatrical supplies website and made the blood with food colouring and corn syrup.
She dabbed fake blood off her chin with a tissue, and wiped off the smears of eye shadow that had made a convincing bruise.
Black Fort replayed the film. Its purpose was, she knew, a mean trick, but that was possible to overlook when the challenge of it seemed so delicious and fitting to her talents.
Watching herself expire, she felt pride in a thoroughly professional piece of work. Dying convincingly was a difficult trick. She clapped to show her approval and gasped at sudden pain. She had forgotten about the fish hook and it had slid into the flesh of her palm.
Black Fort teased it out, but the barb widened the wound and it was alarming how much she was bleeding. Six Days was sent to buy plasters.
She began to feel woozy and was aware that her face was turning pale. She felt annoyed with herself for this weakness – she wanted very much to be tough.
Black Fort said, ‘Hold your hand in the air. Sit down.’
She said, ‘Rub the blood on the phone.’
‘You’re a natural.’ He kissed her. ‘Come on, baby. Be brave. Don’t look at it. It’s okay. I’m here. It’s okay.’
(69
For the deception to work, Wei Wei had to leave town. She was not sorry. Black Fort helped her move out when all her flatmates were at college. He drove her to Liverpool and put her up in a bedsit. It was smaller than she had been led to believe. He assured her that it was only temporary, and soon they would be living together in a mansion. They spent a torrid two weeks christening it, then, for three weeks, he didn’t visit once, and was evasive when she called. It was hardly satisfactory.
He’d bought her a new mobile – black, boysy, with a wealth of pointless functions. She rang her father.
‘How’s life?’ he asked.
‘Interesting.’
‘How’s your course?’
‘Okay, not bad.’
‘What sort of marks are you getting?’
‘Around sixty-five percent.’
‘Try for seventy. How is the weather?’
‘It’s warmer now and the sun is shining at last.’
‘What did you eat this week?’
‘Yesterday I had spaghetti.’
‘Was it good?’
‘It was okay. Sorry, Father. Someone else is calling. Hang on a moment.’ She put him on hold.
‘Hey, babe.’
‘I’m talking to my dad. In China. Are you coming round? I don’t see you at all these days.’
‘I’ll see if I can get away. I’m super-busy. What are you wearing?’
‘I’m not wearing anything. I’m lying in bed touching myself, and I’m not wearing anything. Are you coming round or not?’
‘Stay like that and for sure I’m coming round.’
‘I’m putting you on hold.’
‘I don’t hold. Later, babe.’
She returned to the first call, and to her native tongue.
‘Sorry, that was my classmate. She wanted some homework.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘I’m in college. I have a lecture in a minute.’
‘Study hard and success is assured.’
Quoting the Chairman at her again, though maybe the phrases were so ingrained he never even noticed he was doing it. She said, ‘I’d better say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
‘Same time next week.’
She discovered she’d been twisting the sheets and smoothed them down. Really, she should have got up before ringing her dad – it was weird to talk to him in her night dress. She didn’t like lying to him, and told herself, as she did every time, that it was just until she found her feet. She hoped it would not colour her day, and promised herself that, no, today would be a phoenix day.
Breakfast was instant coffee and a Marlboro Light. What a funny word ‘bedsit’ was – but not inappropriate, as the only chair was covered in clothes and she did, indeed, sit on the bed. More clothes hung on hangers on the cupboard door and windowsill. Dirty laundry was on the floor, and that was the extent of her housework system.
She supposed she should clean up and wash clothes, but they weren’t phoenix-day things. No, she would take a bus into town and explore. Chancing down alleyways, she’d discover hidden gardens and quaint locals sitting out in traditional dress.
But Liverpool city centre looked just like Leeds. She felt nostalgic for the excitement of her first few months away, when everything was new and interesting. She tried wandering down an alleyway but it smelled of piss, and a beggar leered at her. The people of Liverpool exhibited no distinctive customs beyond speaking at high volume in a harsh vernacular.
She went home to prepare for her man’s arrival, and tried to invoke him by thinking seriously about his body, the way, she imagined, a Buddhist meditates on a crystal. Tattoo, birthmark, hairless chest, a match in a lopsided smile. She built him in her mind, but as soon as the figure was perfect it evaporated, so she snuffled in the pillow for the scent of his hair gel. She wrote him an email on her laptop – just ‘Hello, thinking of you’ – and in a final act of extravagant devotion that only she would ever know, changed her Hotmail password to ‘blackfort’.
The tingle of expectation made it impossible to settle, so she flipped through her magazines. These had taught her many new words, such as ‘culottes’, ‘orgasm’, ‘anorexia’ and ‘gigolo’, and now she looked up ‘compatibility’ and ‘nit-pick’. But by midnight there was still no sign of him. It was very exasperating. She rolled a joint and lay down as the buzz took her. She liked being stoned, that feeling of peace and light on a high plateau, but, increasingly these days, getting there was a bumpy ride through paranoia foothills.
In the abstract, her situation was interesting, glamorous – the bad boy, the exotic foreign land, love in a dangerous world – but in reality this sitting around ‘twiddling her thumbs’ was completely unacceptable. It didn’t help that the flat he’d put her up in was so mean, she could hardly get from bed to shower without banging her shin.
Thoughts sparked, spiralled and fizzled out, and underlying all was a sour note of loneliness and loss. ‘Kitchenette’, what a funny word. So the tiny washroom should be a ‘bathroomette’ and she, right now, felt like a ‘girlette’ living a ‘lifette’. This was no phoenix day. It had curdled into yet another dog day.
Her thoughts drifted to her father. He had a mistress parked in a flat, just like this. She’d seen the girl in the passenger seat of a squad car, a country lass with stubby fingers and a guileless smile, and when she’d asked about her, he’d said yes, she was his girl and he looked after her. Perhaps she, too, killed time all day. Of course that had been years ago – he’d probably finished with her by now, taken up with another one. Or two, maybe. Perhaps he had them in flats all over town, one for every occasion.
She sat up so fast it made her dizzy. Now it made sense. Why her man was absent, evasive, distracted. Tremors of alarm spread from her stomach. She laughed a
t herself for being too dumb to have noticed what was right in front of her. He had another woman.
She looked up an article – ‘Love emergency! What to do when your man cheats’. She should confront him, apparently, and give him a hard time about it. She certainly should not ask herself, ‘Where did I go wrong?’
She asked herself where she went wrong. Was she too assertive, too docile, too simple, too complicated? Was she, when it came down to it, just too naïve and unsophisticated? The need to know more, to be certain, gnawed.
The entry system trilled. She was totally unprepared, stoned and confused, no make-up on and the place a mess. She was desperate to please him, hating and loving him, and not really wanting to see him. Worried it would all show on her face, she buzzed him in, then began making a pile of her dirty laundry.
Black Fort kissed her cheek, barged past, fell on the bed, lit a cigarette and started taking off his clothes. He’d been drinking.
‘It’s late.’ She wanted to express her dissatisfaction but could not bring herself to confront him. It was on the tip of her tongue – Is there someone else? You can tell me. But she said, ‘You haven’t been round for so long.’
‘Work is insane.’
‘Why?’
He never talked about work and she’d been happy not to ask. Now, when she needed to know everything, it was too late, the rules were set.
‘Don’t worry your pretty head. I don’t want you getting frown lines.’
‘You are the most secretive man I ever met.’
‘It’s for your own protection.’
‘That is such an old line.’
He started pawing at her clothes.
‘Really, what have you been doing?’
‘I robbed a bank and killed a policeman. Then, in the afternoon…’
‘Please.’
‘I run the club. I make sure people get paid on time. I make sure other people pay me on time. Today I did accounts.’
He had described his gambling club so well, he imagined that she knew it. The metal door, then the smoky room with the fantail table. A croupier made a pile of counters, then swiped them away in groups of four, and punters bet on how many would remain at the end – none, one, two or three. And that was all there was to it – an arid, male environment.