Bad Traffic (20 page)

Ding Ming said, ‘I had to tell my boss, I had no choice. They tied up my mother and they were going to pull her teeth out. Please understand – they have my mother tied up.’

Jian flipped switches on the dash and turned on heating and a fan before he found the siren. A two-note wail built and he saw the reflection of the flashing roof lights on the bonnet. The speedometer hit eighty on some unfamiliar scale.

‘Do you remember the address?’

‘You won’t get ten kilometres. They’ll hunt you down.’

Jian hit third gear and moved into the centre of the road. The dotted lines coalesced into a strip.

‘Do you remember the address?’

Jian showed him the black book. He’d dried it in front of the fan heater and now the vital page was crisp and warped. The ink had run and the words were a cloudy blur.

‘Look at this, it’ll jog your memory. You’re going to get me to that farm. Then I’ll take you back to your boss.’

‘They’ll catch you and shoot you.’

‘We’re going to get a map.’

‘When they catch us, tell them the truth. Tell them you forced me to help you.’

‘They saw me stick a blade to your throat – I think they know that already.’

‘Tell them.’

‘I’ll tell them I forced you. Will you read a map?’

‘Heaven, this is so awful.’

‘You’re better with me than them. Will you read a map?’

‘I’ll read a map. I remember the address. But you won’t get ten kilometres.’

Jian glanced at the lad in the rear view. He was squirmed round, looking out of the back window, no doubt on the lookout for helicopters. This time those fears might be justified. His own force would put out everything they had if a squad car was stolen, though they might be slow to alert other forces, out of sheer embarrassment.

The handcuffs gleamed. The lad wasn’t going to be able to read a map with his hands cuffed behind his back. He hoped the key was on the belt under the seat and not back at the station.

It felt natural to be behind the wheel of a squad car with the siren wailing over his head. These roads, without
potholes
or meandering pedestrians or unlit donkey carts, just invited acceleration. Trees and houses flashed past. He could feel his palms prickling, as they always did when he drove fast.

‘When we get a map,’ said Ding Ming, ‘I’ll mark where you have to go and write the address down in English for you to show people, and then you can take me back to the mud.’

‘You’re coming all the way.’

‘But you said you’d take me back. When we were at the lake, you said, you said.’

‘I remember, just before you tried to get me killed. Maybe you’ll try and cheat me, and when I get a map you’ll just mark any old place. Could be you’ll call your boss again. So you’re coming with me all the way. I’m taking you back only after you get me there, not before.’

Black and white stripes loomed, alerting Jian to a sharp bend. He stamped the brake and tugged down hard at the
wheel and the tyres squealed in complaint. The bumper scraped the sign before he got the thing back on the straight. A bump in the back was the peasant falling against the door.

‘Lao tian a, lao tian a.’

Jian bore rapidly down on a set of tail-lights. It was a boxy estate doing maybe seventy kilometres an hour, a man
driving
and no passengers – just what he was looking for. He overtook, swerved in front of it and slowed. As hoped, the driver pulled up. Jian stopped ahead of him and switched off the siren. His ears were ringing.

The peasant sat up. ‘What are you going to do now?’ There was curiosity as well as fear in his voice.

Jian tapped the wheel and looked the driver over in the wing mirror – a man waiting patiently for the police, unclipping his licence from behind the driver-side visor. He reached under the seat and pulled out the utility belt. It annoyed him that there wasn’t a gun attached to it. A gun made things simpler. The only weapons were a telescopic baton and a spray can. He’d read about these sprays. The Russians used them. They dispensed a gas that made the eyes and throat burn.

So he could just hit the guy with the spray and steal his car. And that would buy him, what, a couple more hours. No use. He had to make sure the guy didn’t report his car as missing. Maybe he could get the cuffs off the peasant and cuff the driver to a fencepost and leave him for the night.

He said to the peasant, ‘Stay here.’

He reversed until there were just a few metres between the cars. He tucked the baton into his belt and held the can in his hand, finger poised over the nozzle. He’d spray the guy in the face, shut him in the boot of the cop car, drive it
into the corner of some field where it wouldn’t get found till morning, then come back – hauling the peasant – and take the estate.

He reminded himself to check the guy for a mobile phone before slinging him in the boot, and, all the while, keeping an eye on the peasant. So, better idea – lock the guy in the boot of the cop car, shut the peasant in the boot of the blue car, then dump the cop car in a field. That would work.

The driver was winding his window down. Jian got round there quickly, raised the spray to a puzzled face and saw a wide-eyed toddler in a child seat in the back.

He faltered and lowered the can. The presence of a kid complicated things too much. The driver scrambled down by the handbrake, and Jian worried he was going for a weapon and after all would be forced to spray him, until the window started rising with a hum. The automatic
window
button was down there. He was jamming it with the fingers of both hands, as if that would make it go faster.

The driver whacked the car into ‘drive’ and it pitched
forward
, straight into the back bumper of the police car,
smashing
a headlight. Broken glass tinkled and the man got his car into reverse and it shot back, tyres screeching. He stopped, turned and drove off.

Jian considered his decision not to spray the man. It was a good decision – he did not want to endanger a life so innocent – but if he was to be honest it was not cold consideration that had stayed his hand but that kid’s soft face and the big curious eyes.

That hadn’t worked, what now? He opened the police car boot and found a medical bag and a toolkit and a couple of traffic cones. His mood of fragile optimism was waning. He had made a hash of this, the logistics were a nightmare, the whole operation was a mess.

Back in the squad car he got a police utility belt out and found a stubby metal key on a chain. He got into the back seat and pushed the peasant’s face against the window.

‘So you phoned your boss.’

Ding Ming’s cheek was pressed against the glass. He
blurted
out of the side of his mouth, ‘When you took me, he told the snakeheads in China and they tied up my mother and I called her—’

The handcuffs chinked as slender hands shook. Beneath the coat Jian could feel the bobbles of his spine and he
realised
how malnourished the lad was. Poor kid was just a civilian, hapless and unlucky, and he felt a twinge of guilt.

‘How did you contact him?’

‘I called him.’

‘Will you call him again?’

‘Of course not, no, no.’

He unlocked the handcuffs and the kid scrambled into the front passenger seat. He envied the lad his youth and his future and his innocence and even his fear. To have fear was to have hope.

Jian got out and into the driver’s seat. The peasant was pointing a gun at him. He groaned with exasperation. He recognised the gun – he’d shot that hoodlum with it… was it only yesterday?

The peasant said, ‘Take me back to the mud.’

‘Where did you get that?’

‘In the glove compartment.’

‘I wondered where it had got to.’

Ding Ming held it with both hands and still the barrel shook.

‘Take me back to the mud, now. Take me back.’

‘Or what? You’ll shoot me?’ He leaned forward and
pointed
as he said, ‘Did you see any cigarettes in there?’

He knocked the peasant’s arm away and grabbed his wrist. With his other forearm he forced the lad back against the door, rising off the seat to get his weight behind it. But the idiot still didn’t let go of the gun, so he headbutted him.

The peasant cried out, dropped the weapon and slapped both hands over his face. Jian fished the gun out from under the handbrake, checked the safety was on, and put it in the driver’s door pocket.

The peasant said, ‘Ow ow ow. Stop hitting me.’

‘Let me look at it.’ He prised Ding Ming’s fingers away. ‘Can you see okay? Any sparkles in your vision?’

‘No.’

‘Any disorientation? How do you feel?’

‘Tired, hungry, terrified.’

‘You’re fine.’

It would sting for a few more minutes and he’d be dazed, and soon enough have a bump and a bruise. The lad’s eyes were watering, with pain or possibly frustration.

‘Stop hitting me, just stop hitting me.’

‘I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry.’

Jian pointed at the glove compartment.

‘Is there a map in there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent.’

Jian was pleased to see the peasant pull out a road atlas. The lad said, ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Hijack a car. One with no kids in it.’

But he drove for minutes and saw no other traffic. He didn’t like not knowing where he was going and losing time. The next vehicles he saw could be a posse of police cars.

The peasant said, ‘You can’t just stop someone and take their car. People have guns.’

‘Is that so? Look at the map. Find out where we are.’

Ahead, a car was turning off. Jian accelerated to catch it, but overshot the narrow sideroad and had to brake and reverse. The car was a few hundred metres ahead but he could see its brake lights winking as it travelled the
winding
lane.

It was a good location – the hedges were high, there were no buildings around and there were fields either side he could dump the police car in. He gained on the vehicle, it turned again, and he followed it into a secluded car park fringed with trees. His quarry slowed.

Jian shifted in his seat, psyching himself up. He would be ruthless, whoever was in there. He reached to turn on the siren but paused when he saw the odd, busy scene. Six or seven cars were parked up. A gaggle of men bent to peer into a roomy estate, and one aimed a video camera through steamy windows. The back door of a van hung open and a man knelt on the tarmac before it, his head and shoulders inside, moving rhythmically.

The squad car lights swept across an interior painted red and a tangle of pale arms and legs. Why, there were naked people in there. They seemed even more surprised than him.

The sight of the police car spread panic. Half-dressed figures scattered for cars, the van door was pulled shut, a man shuffled, holding up his trousers.

‘What’s going on?’ said the peasant.

Car doors slammed and engines started. Headlight beams swiped back and forth as cars rushed away.

Jian put the siren on and took the squad car forward. A white van and a black sports car were parked side by side with their front doors hanging open. In the front of the sports car, three figures hastily rearranged themselves. Doors were pulled shut, the vehicle reversed and swung around, and, as it shot past, Jian glimpsed a bare-chested man driving and an awkward couple with flushed faces squeezed into the passenger seat. He slid the squad car towards the only
vehicle
remaining, the abandoned van.

‘A sex party,’ said Ding Ming. ‘They were having a sex party.’

‘Stay here.’

But, though the van’s front door was wide open, there was no sign of the keys. Presumably the driver had been driven off in the sports car. He cursed. He’d wasted so much time. He’d get back on the main road, set up a roadblock and hijack the first vehicle that came along. Or break into a house and steal some car keys. The thought of terrorising more civilians, and the logistical hassles any plan he might come up with would entail, caused dismay.

‘I could maybe start it,’ said Ding Ming. ‘There are four wires under the ignition, you have to bind three of them and then touch them to the fourth. Don’t tell anyone I helped you. Tell them you did it yourself.’

‘How long would it take?’

‘I’d have to have a look.’

Together they considered the housing behind the steering wheel.

‘First, you have to get that off. Fiddly. Needs a screwdriver. Then you can get to the wiring.’

Jian found a hammer in the squad car toolkit. He smashed the housing until it cracked, then turned the head and wrenched it away with the claw. Underneath the gouged plastic, coloured wires ran along a metal shaft.

‘If anyone finds out I did this, you forced me to help you,’ said Ding Ming. ‘I didn’t have a choice.’

‘That’s right. I said I’d break your fingers if you didn’t.’

The peasant squatted and poked his head under the
steering
column. Jian stood behind him pointing a police torch.

‘My cousin showed me. He’s a lorry driver. They all know how to do it because they get drunk and lose their keys. Can I have more light, please? There’s the wires.’

‘Can you start it or not?’

‘It’s fiddly. What about all those people, having a sex party out here? I feel sorry for them. They can’t have loving spouses.’

‘Get it started. Someone is going to come back for this soon.’

But the peasant stopped work.

‘I’ll start the engine if you grant me a favour.’

‘Cunning peasant.’

‘Can I call my mother? Please. I’m worried about her. They’ve tied her to a chair.’

‘I’ll get you back to your boss and everything will be straightened out.’

‘I want to make a phone call.’

‘Your mother is fine. Think about it. Your boss and his men saw the van go into the water. They thought you were in it with me. They think we’re both dead. Your boss will
have told the snakeheads back home, and they’ll have told your mother and left her to her grief.’

‘I must call her, I must call her.’

A vehicle was approaching. The headlights were white and low. It was the sports car.

‘Get that van started,’ barked Jian. ‘You can call her. But you will speak only Mandarin to her and you’ll say nothing except that you are alive.’

‘She doesn’t understand Mandarin.’

‘She’ll understand your voice.’

He leaned into the police car and turned the siren on. The flashing rooflights illuminated the scene and the peasant could be clearly seen tinkering. So Jian turned the headlights on full beam to dazzle the new arrivals.

The sports car stopped and a man got down from it and stood shading his eyes and calling out.

‘Tell him to stay back,’ said Jian. ‘Sound like you mean it.’ The peasant shouted at the guy, who took a couple of steps closer. Ding Ming said the same thing, louder this time, and now the man stopped. He was wearing a shirt but no shoes or trousers, and was hopping from one foot to the other. Perhaps the tarmac was pricking his feet.

Ding Ming said, ‘He wants to know what we’re doing. He said he wants to get into his van. And some other stuff, but I didn’t catch it.’

‘Tell him to turn round and put his hands on his head.’

Ding Ming relayed the order and the man obeyed and Ding Ming returned to fiddling with the wires. But now a woman was coming out of the car and calling. Jian said, ‘Tell them to lie on the ground with their hands on their heads. Sound annoyed.’

The man got down on his front but the woman stepped forward. She wasn’t buying it.

Ding Ming said, ‘They want to know if we’re Chinese police and what we’re doing. They say they were just
having
a party and it’s not against the law, and some other stuff I couldn’t catch.’

‘Tell them we’ve found a bomb.’

‘I don’t know how to say that in English.’

Jian ran a hand through his hair. So here I am, he thought sardonically, trying to steal a car from a bunch of sex
maniacs
on the wrong side of the world.

‘Then tell them there’s a man with a gun. He’s hiding around here somewhere. For their own safety they must lie on the ground.’

‘That’s difficult.’

But Ding Ming leaned back out of the van and shouted, and at least now there was some authority to his voice. The woman obeyed and a second man got down from the sports car, and he lay down, too. The lad went back to the wires. The engine of the van caught and he grinned in triumph.

Jian got in. An image of his daughter rose unbidden. She was sitting in the passenger seat talking about a film she’d seen. She put the seat belt on and tugged to check it was secure. Her voice and her deft hands were as vivid as if she were really there, but the image vanished and a sense of
emptiness
welled. She was not an absent presence but a present absence. So was her mother. What great gaps he carried.

Ding Ming said, ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, it’s nothing.’ He wrenched the steering wheel. It did not obey, and he slapped it in frustration. It was locked – it would move a few centimetres then freeze. Some kind of security device. He should have known, they had the same thing on the squad cars back home. Ding Ming’s smile faded.