Free Citizen One by Andy Oakes Page B

bowl, Madam. He refuses to bend, as we all must. He refuses to sublimate his individuality for the good of the group.”
    Silence. Just an electronic white noise of disembodied voices.
    “You could be talking about Mao, Comrade Chief Officer.”
    “Really, Madam, I must protest. I really must …”
    “You must do what exactly, Zoul? Shred the files and reports for him? Hide the evidence, ignore the witnesses because he will not? Too late, Comrade Chief Officer. Too late. How can you wrap a fire in paper?”
    Silence.
    “You have failed to protect him, as was our agreement. But never let it be said that I am not understanding. Not magnanimous. You will let me have the details of the case that he is involved in. You will let me have the details of the tai zis that he is investigating. By courier. By tonight, Zoul. Is that understood?”
    “Yes, Madam. Thank you, Madam. By tonight, without fail. By tonight. Thank you. Thank you …”
    Still apologising, as she placed the receiver back onto its cradle. His clammy-handed words, still filling her ears, even as the fine caramel sand fell between her toes. Watching as the child, her child, played on the sand. A dance of innocent joy, kicking over castles made of sand. And knowing that her only words to him as she passed to feel the cool waters from India, Africa, lap against her feet, would be:
    “Little Comrade, dance on your castles of sand. Little Comrade, I know a big comrade who is just like you.”

Chapter 10
    Piao, waking exhausted, his head full of memories, of dreams, indistinguishable from each other. Washing and shaving with cold water, the heater broken. Dressing. The flat too small to live in, too big not to. And so much to avoid: photos, possessions, memories.
    Static in the centre of the living area. Watching the minute hand’s crawl. Always on time, the Big Man. Always.
    To the minute, the Shanghai Sedan’s horn. The spell broken. Feet across paper mosaic of letters. Door closing. Stained steps. The car. The Big Man’s jokes. Through traffic, a short stuttered drive. A tea house on Jinlinglu. Tea and peanuts, pickles, mantou and jokes. Always the Big Man’s jokes. He remembered, even at the start of the agonies of detoxification; the process that would bleed Ankang’s will from him. A pill, sweetly pink, between the Big Man’s dirty fingertips. Holding it up high, between his eyes. Almost to his mid-forehead. A pharmacological bindi . And the words, slow, deliberately so …
    “The last one, Boss. The last fucking one.”
    Pushing it into Piao’s mouth. His fingers a mix of sweat, chilli and ginger.
    “Think of it as your virginity, Boss. Once gone you can’t have it again.”
    *

    A day of mists. As if a damp, white teacloth had been thrown across the city.
    Crossing the Nan Pu bridge and following the river’s ‘S’ bend as far as the Lujiazui, the new financial trade zone. Billions of dollars in marble clad, chrome and neon-striped spills. Where there were once orchards, now glass and concrete in vertical soars. Where there was once paddy fields, now stripped pine-floored Thai restaurants and sparse, cold-windowed designer outlets. Even the pedestrians with a different look. A new look: suits and clean underwear. Rolex gold watches, encircling wrists not turning jade. And on their breath, the smells of the dahu , the new money people. Fashionable smells only: lemon grass and tequila, sushi and Jack Daniel’s. Where once it had been China Brands and Tsingtao, street vendor noodles and yesterday’s tea.
    A spike above Century Park, the Oriental Pearl TV Tower. The third highest in the world: 468 metres of eleven spheres and columns of steel holding them in place. Locals saying that it looked like ‘two dragons playing with a pearl’. The tourist board saying that it resembled ‘a string of pearls falling onto an emerald plate.’ The Senior Investigator less poetic. Every time that he saw the tower, which was every day, thinking that it