Bad Traffic (31 page)

Jian tossed his gun away. He forced his mouth into a grin. The corners of Black Fort’s mouth twitched in response. Now Jian could see the livid gash above the man’s ear. The man’s gun seemed to have made up its mind. Jian looked into the barrel’s full stop.

‘You’re a realist,’ he said. ‘I understand that.’ He just needed to get the man talking. ‘Kill me, but leave my daughter.’

Acutely conscious of the peasant’s movements, he had to resist the impulse to glance across. He stretched his hand towards the man and tapped the floor, hoping Ding Ming understood.

Black Fort said, in stilted Mandarin, ‘I’m cleaning up. You’re all dead.’ His voice was slow and slurred. He
stumbled
and, as he regained his balance, squeezed Wei Wei’s neck. She gagged.

‘You can watch her die.’ Black Fort pushed her away and swung his gun towards her. She screamed.

Ding Ming skittered the pistol across the floor. Jian dived for it, grabbed it, turned and shot Black Fort in the head. The shotgun halted, drooped and fell, and without fuss the man tumbled after it to the floor. A puff of dust rose. One white shoe twitched. Sprawled untidily on broken brick, he seemed to stare at the fat man and the fat man seemed to be looking right back.

Jian said to Ding Ming, ‘You never stay where you’re put, do you?’

They helped the girls into the long grass behind the barn. All moved shakily and slowly, with stunned acquiescence. It was almost peaceful here in the long grass. Jian was shaking, too, as the adrenaline left his body. He was like a child, putting names to the things he saw – sky, tree, daughter. A gentle breeze animated leaves. Rooks flapped across grey sky, past a slither of sun garlanded with rosy streaks. He realised how much his body was aching.

The buzz of an engine rose in volume. A heavy vehicle was coming up the track. Jian pointed to the trees. ‘Hide. Ding Ming, come with me.’

Jian picked his way over loose bricks into the barn. The dust was settling, but sooty flakes swirled and thick blood pools ran. He took the car keys out of Black Fort’s pocket.

Ding Ming called, ‘There’s a truck coming.’

‘I know, I know.’

Jian came out and watched it edging forwards. It was only just wide enough for the track, and branches lashed it. Jian fired his gun into the air, then aimed at the driver.

‘Ding Ming, tell him to stop and get out.’

The command was communicated, and the man got down with his hands in the air. He was another portly bald type.

‘Tell him to empty his pockets. Good. Now tell him he’s got a minute to run as fast as he can, then we’re coming after him.’

Before Ding Ming had finished talking the man was
sprinting
away. When he looked back over his shoulder Jian raised the shotgun. He ran faster.

Jian said, ‘I reckon your English might be getting better.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to get this truck into the yard.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s blocking the track.’

‘There are migrants in the back, you know. That’s what they do here, they—’

‘Direct me.’

Jian scooped up the driver’s wallet and mobile. The cab smelled pungent and was full of empty crisp packets.
Easing
the truck into the yard, he developed a new
appreciation
for the skills of their drivers – the thing handled like a brick.

He opened the container at the back and peered into the gloom at large cardboard boxes. He clapped, and the
cardboard
began to rip from the inside, like square eggs
hatching
. Hands appeared through the gaps, then pinched,
frightened
faces. Hopeful eyes looked back.

He said, ‘All of you stay there.’

A Chinese man said, ‘Is this Gold Mountain?’

‘No.’

A girl piped up, in stitled Mandarin, ‘Please, sir. Can we get out and go to the toilet?’

‘No.’

A distant siren began to wail. Once more he had to be quick. He took Ding Ming aside.

‘Give me that coat.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s very distinctive. Give me the football shirt, as well.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘There.’ Now you’re just another migrant.’ He considered the man’s bruised, pale torso. ‘A very skinny one.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘You tell them that you arrived in that truck, with that lot, stuffed in a box. You and your wife and the two girls, you know nothing about anything. You just got here.’

‘Tell who?’

‘The police. You’re going to wait here till they arrive. All of you are.’

‘No. They’ll take my organs.’

‘Who told you that? Think about it for a second. The
snakeheads
told you. You believe them?’

‘You told me.’

‘Did I? Alright, I told you. For the same reason they did. I needed you to be afraid. Don’t believe everything you’re told. Nothing will happen to any of you. You’ll get deported, that’s it. They’ll shrug and send you home.’

‘You’re going? You’re just going to leave us?’

The kid had rubbed soil over his face, and on top of this layer was a coating of soot and dust. Even through all this, he could still see the split lip and purple bruise over his eyebrow.

‘I’m Inspector Ma Jian of the Qitaihe Public Security Bureau.’ With his index finger, he traced the two
characters
of his name on his palm. ‘Its in Heilongjiang
Province
, Qitaihe Prefecture, Liberation Road. You know what it means, me telling you this? You could tell the cops here and get me into a lot of trouble. But I trust that you’re not going to.’

He laid both hands on the lad’s bony shoulders. ‘I trust that you’re going to keep quiet, and let them deport you, and when you get back home you’re going to look me up. And I’ll sort you and your wife out. And those other two. I said
I’d get you a job, I’ll get you a job. And you won’t have to worry about any snakeheads. Anyone comes near you, I’ll sling them in jail. Just get yourself home, then you’re set. In front of my daughter, I promise.’

Ding Ming nodded. ‘We all just arrived in that truck.’

‘Good lad. We did good together. Go and brief the others.’

Ding Ming’s face broke up.

‘You nearly got me killed.’

He lashed out. Jian parried blows.

‘You’ll need to work on that. Try and get your
shoulder
behind it.’

Ding Ming swung again and, as instructed, put his shoulder into it, and landed a punch on Jian’s jaw. Jian staggered and put a finger to his lip. It came away smudged with blood. Ding Ming bobbed with an expression of pain on his face and his fist tucked up in his armpit.

‘How do you say ‘Goodbye’ in English?’

Ding Ming told him, and he gave it a go.

Jian laid the parka around Wei Wei’s shoulders and
hurried
her into Black Fort’s eye-catching car. He supposed it was his own body that had made that dink on the passenger door. Bright yellow, with a flame decal, sooty and peppered with shot – the thing was hardly inconspicuous. At least the windows were intact.

‘I’m sorry, Dad, I’m so sorry—’

‘You got that credit card I gave you?’

‘Huh? Uh, yes. It’s in—’ A flutter of birdsong. Her ease with English had always impressed him, and that sudden eruption reminded him of his pride. She was a bright girl, she’d do okay.

He unzipped his money belt, prised out a filthy, sodden passport, and put it on the dashboard to dry out.

‘Where’s yours?’

‘That’s there, too.’

‘First we pick up your card and passport. Then we have to get to an airport.’

‘Why?’

‘Why do you think? We’re going home.’

The seats were reclined quite far back, but he was getting used to that now. He turned the ignition and slid the car into first gear and it shot forward with surprising force. He
supposed
it had been souped up.

‘Do you smoke?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here.’ He tossed cigarettes and lighter into her lap. ‘And light one for me.’

He turned the car out of the lane and put his foot down. Driving towards the sunrise, he laid his hands high on the wheel. Another long journey was beginning – he could not rest yet. Gesturing at the glove compartment he said, ‘Is there a map in there?’