Bad Traffic (10 page)

The soft-focus ladies still grinned from the walls but the real girls had gone. The table lay on its side and fake fruit rolled back and forth. A bloody smear near the skirting board told him that the barefoot girl had run round the cardboard cut-out of the actress. Strangely, the name of this actress now came to him – Monroe. Behind her, a door hung ajar.

Jian was breathing heavily and motes of light flickered before his eyes. He was thinking in fragments, but
screaming
at himself to stay sharp. He stood against the wall and extended his toe to poke the door open.

An explosion made his head ring. Stings pattered his side and he flinched, raising his arms to cover his face. Part of the ceiling trellis collapsed with a snap and plastic grapes fell and bounced.

Someone had fired a shotgun at the door. Slithers of wood hung from the hinges, the rest had been blown into the room. The lampshade was torn to shreds, the bulb shattered.

Jian had been hit by splinters and deafened by the noise, nothing more. He dropped to his haunches and knocked a chair over. He hoped its thunk sounded like a dying man. He straightened and took a big, careful step back.

The only light now was a dim red glow from the
corridor
and Jian almost did not see the shotgun barrel nudging through the doorway. He grabbed it with his free hand and the heat of the barrel was painful as he yanked it, pulling its bearer forward.

Black Fort was on the other end, and now the two men were shockingly close and Jian could see into his yellowish eyes. All he had to do was bring up the gun and it would all be over. He pulled hard on the shotgun barrel and Black Fort lurched forward and Jian’s hand came up and his finger was tightening on the trigger.

But Black Fort let go of the shotgun and dropped, and now Jian was off balance, and a jutting elbow struck his gun arm on the wrist and knocked his hand up and the gun fired into the ceiling. Burning powder from the discharge stung his eyes. Black Fort grunted – it had hurt him, too.

Jian was back against the bar, and Black Fort was
moving
forward, and in a moment he’d banged a bony shoulder into Jian’s chest and headbutted his jaw. Jian raised his leg and turned his hips and a knee strike aimed at the crotch whacked his thigh. He brought the butt of his gun down hard on the back of Black Fort’s head and the impact jarred his elbow.

Black Fort put his hands either side of Jian’s head and
fumbled
his thumbs into Jian’s eyes. Jian beat the gun against Black Fort’s back. Black Fort let go with one hand and with the other slapped Jian’s gun arm away and pinned it to the desk. The other thumb kept burning into the screwed-up eye. Jian thrashed – death or blindness was a moment away.

Desperation gave him strength, and he leaned right back over the bar, kicked his legs up and carried Black Fort up and into the air. He twisted and turned right over the bar, and with a succession of bruising jolts crashed down onto the other side.

He was lying on the floor and still holding the gun. His eyes were raw and full of water and he couldn’t see. He hauled himself to his feet and gritted his teeth against the pains gathering in his ankle and elbow and back.

Leaning against the wall, he pointed the gun and tried to keep it straight. He was aware of a dark form moving in the red light. It went away.

He dragged himself through the open door and around dark shapes that might be furniture. A stereo was playing a catchy ditty, one he had last heard blaring out of a clothes shop back home, and the words came at him clear and
distinct
. ‘
Wo zhende ai ni, ni shi wo superstar
… I really love you, you are my superstar.’

He wished his eyes would stop streaming. A square of white light floated before him, rising from the vague redness all around. He dragged himself up to it and realised
everyone
had gone through this open window and left him alone.

With the gun raised, he felt his way back down the stairs and out the front door. They would return in force, with more weapons, but he supposed he was safe for a few
minutes
. In an alley he slid down a wall between plastic bins until he was sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him. Pains crowded for attention. He ignored them and reached for a cigarette and was annoyed to find out that his pack wasn’t there, it must have fallen out in the fight. All he had in his pockets was his daughter’s mobile phone and Black Fort‘s namecard. He contemplated the phone number scrawled on the back, and waited for his eyes to clear so he could read it.

Mister Kevin drove the migrants to the seaside. Ding Ming reflected on what a long day it had been. It would be very good to lie down. He just needed a corner to curl up in and he’d be sleeping like a baby. But he could not rest yet. He
contemplated
a bleak plain of mud that shaded, far away, into a black sheet of water broken only by the rippling reflection of the moon. He wondered what sea he was looking at.

A Chinese man got down from a tractor and introduced himself as shift supervisor. He handed out boots, rakes and waterproofs and explained that they were going to pick shellfish from the mud. It was very easy, even in the dark, the experienced workers would show them the ropes. They had five or six hours yet before the tide came in, a half-shift. He was from Fujian, and so too, he said, were most of the workers out there, so there was nothing to be afraid of.

And if they worked hard they could earn as much as one pound an hour. Ding Ming was very pleased. That was
fourteen
and a half yuan, an enormous amount, and just for
foraging
in mud. Gold Mountain deserved its name. Why, if he was given the opportunity to work ten or twelve hours a day for seven days a week, as he hoped, he’d be earning as much as eighty pounds a week, more than a thousand yuan. Four thousand yuan a month – it was scarcely credible. Back in the village, only a boss or an official could hope to earn so much.

The shift supervisor ordered the migrants onto the
tractor’s
trailer and started the noisy engine. The men whooped to raise their spirits and somewhere a dog barked.
Kevin called Ding Ming back. ‘Oi you. William. Over here a sec.’

Ding Ming watched the tractor chug away. He
wanted
to be given his chance to earn fourteen and a half yuan an hour. He feared another sexual overture and wrung his hands with nervousness.

But Kevin thrust a mobile phone at him. ‘I think he’s Chinese. What’s he saying?’

‘Hello?’ said Ding Ming.

‘Hello?’ A man, his syllable a snap of inquiry. ‘
Ni shi shei?
… Who are you?’

‘I’m Ding Ming. Who are you?’

‘Who have I called? Whose phone is this?’

‘A labour organiser. An English man.’

‘A labour organiser… Are you a worker?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. Tell him… tell him I’m looking for a job.’

The brusque statements gave Ding Ming the impression of someone used to wielding authority. The accent was
northeastern
, the Mandarin very clear. This was someone with education.

Ding Ming said to Kevin, ‘He say he want job.’

‘Tell him to fuck off.’

‘He says no.’

The northeasterner said, ‘Tell him that a Chinese man called Black Fort gave me this number. Tell him that Black Fort said that I was to ring this man, this labour organiser, and that he was to give me a job. Tell him that.’

Ding Ming translated into English, acutely aware that he was making some shocking grammar mistakes.

Kevin sighed. ‘Is he ringing from a mobile?’

Ding Ming inquired. Yes, the man was ringing from a mobile.

Kevin said, ‘I’ll text him where we are. Tell him to turn up here round about dawn. Give me the phone.’

‘The labour organiser is going to text you an address.’

‘Can he be more specific?’

Kevin took the mobile and sent the caller a text message. It must have been stored, as it only took a moment. ‘Anyway, he’ll never find it.’

Ding Ming looked out at the puttering tractor.

‘You’ll be out there soon enough,’ said Kevin. ‘When he’s dropped that lot off, he’ll load up with sacks and come back.’

‘One pound for one hour?’ It was still scarcely believable.

‘But of course we have to shave something off that to cover accommodation, food, work permits, transport to the site, hire of the equipment, administration costs and so on and such like. Then the money that is left is going towards
paying
off your debt. You won’t actually see any money as such for a little while.’

Ding Ming grew aware that Kevin was looking him up and down, and shied from the scrutiny, lowering his eyes. The white man’s feet, considered as part of the legs, looked all out of proportion. He supposed a foot didn’t get chubby when the rest of you did, it was left behind.

‘Of course, certain considerations can be made for good workers.’

‘Oh.’

‘I believe we were discussing your wife.’

‘Yes.’

‘And how keen you are to talk to her again.’ There was a familiar leer on Kevin’s face.

Not this again.

A dog barked, very close and loud, and Ding Ming spun around, expecting to be bitten.

‘Bollocks,’ said Kevin, and fumbled his mobile out of his pocket. The dog bark repeated. In fact it was nothing but a customised ring tone.

‘What?’ said Kevin into the mobile. As he listened his eyes widened and mouth opened. ‘Christ. You’re fucking
joking
. Shot? With a gun?’ Pressing the mobile hard against his head, he hurried into the van. ‘Fuck. Well who? Yeah.’

Suddenly it was as if Ding Ming were not there at all, which was a relief, but Kevin’s tone was so disturbed and his actions so agitated that he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of alarm. This was a serious phone call, dealing with dramatic events. Ding Ming hoped none of that drama would touch him. He sidled away. All forms of trouble were to be avoided.

But Kevin snapped, ‘Get in.’ And when Ding Ming hesitated, ‘I’m not pissing about.’

Ding Ming climbed into the van and Kevin accelerated so fast that he tumbled over. He held onto the seat in front as the vehicle bumped over grassy tummocks towards the road. Kevin was driving far too fast – much more of this and the suspension would break. He wondered whether he could risk asking what was going on, but decided that the best course of action was to keep silent and watchful and not draw attention to himself.

Kevin was talking on his mobile again.

‘Christ, I could have been there. Definitely dead? Can’t you just dump it in an alley or something? Okay, okay, no, I’m just saying.’

Could have been! What a fiendish language to contain such constructions. What was that – perfective subjunctive? His teacher could have told him. But his teacher would have
hardly
understood a word of Kevin’s slurred and rapid speech. Himself, he was at that frustrating point with Kevin’s English, where, though the individual words were generally clear, the meaning was often obscure.

Ding Ming felt that he could hardly remember a time when he wasn’t being driven around and told what to do. This was his fate, it seemed, and he’d better get used to it. A cunning person would welcome this chance to grab some rest. He put his forearm along the top of the seat in front and laid his head on it and closed his eyes and went over today’s words.

This cake does not ‘please’ me in the slightest. It is a ‘pleasure’ to meet you. He was not getting through the dictionary as fast as he’d like, but with all the recent
disruptions
it was a great effort to keep up his studies. Those people have the manners of ‘plebeians’.

He wondered if his wife remembered any of the English he’d taught her. She’d gamely given it a go, but hadn’t been very good at it. The oddest words had stuck – choo choo train, amazing, rabbit, doorknob, kitten but not cat. She’d been in awe of his ability and, he suspected, prompted their lessons not out of desire to learn but to delight in his
astonishing
talent.

It was impossible not to think about her, so, as Ding Ming was practical in his mental habits, he decided to think about her in English. Darling, sweetheart, honey, my big love, my love person, that one I like the most. My
favourite 
person in the world, the better – no the most best – no the best.

Enough, he told himself, the exercise had backfired, he was nearly crying. He raised his head. The van was
travelling
a dirt track parallel to the coast. To the right, lights burned, and the lower part of the sky was orange with light pollution, but ahead was total darkness.

They climbed, turned, entered a stand of trees and now all that could be seen was what the headlights revealed: a narrow trail between gnarled trunks. Kevin slowed and turned off the track and the van bumped further into the wood and the tyres crunched undergrowth. Ding Ming flinched as branches lashed the windscreen.

Kevin stopped the engine and turned off the lights, and dismaying silence and blackness swooped down. He got out and beckoned Ding Ming to follow. They trudged
downhill
, and leaves crackled underfoot. A brook trickled and night creatures rustled and called. As Ding Ming’s eyes grew used to the gloom he made out fleshy fungal growths on a rotten log and twigs criss-crossing like the fibres of a net. To be surrounded by trees was to be in an unfamiliar, primal territory. And these trees were grisly and disfigured, their gnarled trunks spotted with breakouts, smothered in moss like a rash. Kevin gave him a spade and said, ‘Dig.’