Free Under Fishbone Clouds by Sam Meekings

laughed, rubbing his fingers round the swollen rim of the glass. ‘That was for you. There is a difference between leaving with a purpose and leaving because you have no idea what your purpose should be. Most of those people we passed out there on the streets, they’ll be gone by morning, and we all know why. They’ve got no choice, but you have, yet you still haven’t said why you want to leave. Do you really think you’ll find work and food and riches in another city? Do you really think other towns have more crops, more machines to work, more coins to spend? Perhaps they do, but what if they don’t?’
    ‘That “perhaps” is enough for me. It’s the biggest word we’ve got. You’ve noticed it hanging on the edge of every sentence, like vultures over the shacks of the starving. Maybe. Perhaps. Thereare whole worlds inside those words, you’ve just got to prise them open,’ Jinyi replied.
    ‘No, Jinyi. They mean “No, not a chance in hell.” That’s all. They’re just a way of saving face. If we can beat the Japs – even just force them back up north – then we’ll have the whole place right in no time. Then there won’t be any maybe or perhaps . Then everyone will say is or for sure or without a doubt . If you ask me, it’s either fight or watch the city get washed away by dirty rain and rusty guns.’
    ‘You could always come with me.’ Jinyi looked at the table as he spoke, and the older boy turned away too, for this was the furthest this point could be pressed.
    ‘I can’t run away from my family. I either stay here and rot or go the same way as my brother, wherever he is. I’m not even sure what it is you’re expecting to find.’
    ‘When I get there, I’ll know. And then I’ll be able to come back, and hold my head up a little higher when I do. Places chew you up and make you part of the scenery. You’re not yourself: you’re just someone’s uncle’s cousin, or someone’s grandson. There must be places where there is just half a jin of opportunity – that’s all I’m looking for. A place where you can write your own story instead of getting stuck in a web of memories.’
    ‘But this country is made of memories. Even if a man can’t read or write, he still knows the name of his great-great-grandfather’s uncle’s half-brother and everything he did in his sorry life! You could come with me , Jinyi, and turn those memories around, like my brother.’
    ‘Can you see me with a gun in my hand?’
    The drinks were almost finished, and the streets outside were strangely peaceful in their evening glow, despite the hiccupping engine of a military truck skirting the outer walls.
    ‘You’re going to end up part of one of those stories, whatever you do,’ Dongming replied. ‘So you’d better choose a good one. Places make stories out of whatever they can. Think of my family sitting mulling over my brother every night. Or think of Old Li – you know, that thin businessman with the face full of ink-stain birthmarks. He spends all his time wondering if his wife will ever return, and, every time he looks into people’s eyes, he sees that no one else has forgotten it either. Look at the trees, the river, everything. I musthave heard a hundred different stories about things that used to happen in the forest before it got torn up, and how people swear the river changed course after that girl threw herself into it. Oh, what was her name?’
    ‘Stories are like that. People bend their memories into stories to make themselves feel content, or to disguise the horror of everything around them. I don’t want to be like that. That’s why I left home in the first place.’
    ‘So we’ll both go.’ Dongming looked at the younger boy as if for assurance.
    ‘You’re suddenly serious. I was waiting to see what that looked like,’ Jinyi said.
    Dongming showed a fake smile, all yellow teeth and embarrassment . ‘Yes, I’m serious. If my useless brother can rewrite his story, then I can too.