Free Bad Traffic by Simon Lewis Page B

open door. The owner was a silhouette. He turned, an edge gleamed and Jian realised with consternation that the man was holding up a chopping knife. He was breathing heavily , talking in a panicky fashion in Cantonese, and backing away.
    The restaurant door swung shut and now the kitchen was completely dark. Jian could hear the owner retreating. Not fast, but faster than he could move, as he didn’t know the layout. He sidestepped and opened a fridge. Yellow light revealed the owner bent before a back door. Keys tinkled as he groped through them with a shaking hand. With the other he waved the chopper.
    Jian dragged a bin across the floor and used it to prop open the fridge. He picked up a wok and held it before him, bent his head and charged. The chopper swung and hit his shield with a clang.
    Jian slammed into the old man and kept pushing, and felt the man hit the door and tumble. Jian straddled him and lowered the wok until the thin metal edge was against the scrawny throat. He pressed down, and the skin of the neck went white. The old man squawked and cried. Jian tossed the wok aside. He could not help but note how the man’s wrinkled brow resembled his own. 

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    Jian fumbled in the old man’s pocket and found a mobile. He shifted uncomfortably, this position being tough on his knees, and called the student Song. The phone rang and rang – she had better be up – then a sleepy voice muttered in English.
    ‘ Zhe shi zhong guo jing cha … This is the Chinese policeman. Tell me what this man is saying.’
    ‘ Zenme hui shi le? … What’s going on?’
    ‘He’s speaking English, but he’s distressed. Just tell me what he’s saying.’
    Jian held the phone down over the old man’s babbling mouth, then put it back to his ear. The girl sounded awake now, and alarmed.
    ‘Is that the man from that restaurant?’
    ‘He knows about my daughter. Tell me what he is saying.’
    ‘What have you done to him? What’s going on? Maybe I should call the police.’
    ‘If you hang up, I’ll hit him again. Then I’ll call someone else.’
    ‘You hit him?’
    ‘He knows about my daughter. I’m going to keep hitting him until I find out what he knows. If you want me to stop, tell me what he’s saying.’
    He could hear her ragged breathing, and just from that constructed an image of her distraught expression. He suppressed a twinge of guilt.
    She said, ‘Put the phone on his mouth.’
    He did so, and the screen display lit up frightened eyes. He let her hear twenty seconds of jabber, then returned the phone to his ear.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘He says she was here but it’s not his fault. He says he’s really sorry but there was nothing he could do. He keeps say it. Nothing he could do, nothing he could do. He’s very scared. He says he wants to help you.’
    ‘Now what is he saying?’
    ‘Oh, this is too horrible.’
    ‘What’s he saying?’
    ‘He says that he really liked her and he’s got something to show you. Don’t ever call me again.’
    ‘Don’t hang up.’
    ‘He’s going to show you something. Don’t ever call again.’ The phone went dead.
    Jian hauled the old man to his feet. He was rubbing his neck and whining, so Jian checked for damage. He was okay – a little superficial redness.
    The man beckoned with a scrawny wrist and led Jian into the restaurant. He reached behind the ceramic figure of the portly Kitchen God and slid out a thin briefcase.
    Jian took two chairs and they sat opposite each other at a corner table. As the old man fumbled with the combination lock, Jian lit a 555 and the table candle. The little flame cast an intimate glow over the two figures and threw thorny shadows round the rest of the room.
    The old man took out from his briefcase a pink clamshell phone. He gave it to Jian. A green gonk hung off it. Jian knew that dumb toy, and looked up sharply.
    ‘This is my daughter’s.’
    The gonk’s fur was matted with dried black gunk. More coagulated between phone keys.
    The old