Peter May - The Firemaker

‘Sure,’ Lily said, without turning, as she disappeared into the bowels of the building.

At a quarter to ten Margaret went looking for her, eventually spotting her ten minutes later crossing campus towards the auditorium. Margaret chased after her, the glare and heat of the sun bouncing back at her off the tarmac. ‘Lily! Lily!’ She was breathless and red-faced by the time she caught up with her. ‘Lily, where are my photocopies? I’ve got class in five minutes.’

‘Oh, photocopy take time. Girl busy right now,’ Lily said, and resumed her progress towards the auditorium.

Margaret chased after her. ‘That’s not good enough. I want them now. And I need that book back.’

‘This afternoon,’ Lily said without breaking stride.

Margaret stopped, fists clenched at her sides. ‘All right. I’ll do it myself. Where’s the photocopier?’

‘No need you do it yourself. That what secretary there for.’ And Lily disappeared into the auditorium. Margaret stood, stock still, the sun beating down on her like a physical blow, and felt the most powerful urge to scream at the top of her lungs.

The bleep on the hour from her digital watch had come as a sickening reminder that she should be somewhere else. She had hurried back to the office to collect her stuff and then literally run across campus to the red-brick building that housed the lecture rooms. It had taken her fully another five minutes to find her lecture room. Fifteen students, twelve male and three female, sat in patient and curious silence as the puce-faced and perspiring pathologist made her breathless entrance for her debut lecture.

Her attempt at composure, which consisted of a deep breath and a big smile, was met with blank faces. ‘Hi,’ she said, confidence dissolving fast. ‘I’m Dr Margaret Campbell. I’m a forensic pathologist from the Cook County Examiner’s Office in Chicago, Illinois. And over the next six weeks it had been my intention to take you through twelve real-life murder cases from the US. Unfortunately, a lot of the material I have is visual. Photographic slides. And, sadly, it seems the university is unable to provide me with a projector to…’ Her voice trailed off as she saw a 35mm slide projector on a table at the back of the room — at the same time as most of the students turned to look at it. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Looks like they’ve been able to lay their hands on one after all.’ A tense pause. ‘If they’d told me, I’d have brought my slides with me.’ Her cheek muscles were beginning to ache with the effort of holding, for hours it seemed, a smile on her face. ‘I’ll just go and get them. Back in five minutes.’

That, she had reflected, as she hurried back to her office, was what the Chinese would have described as extreme loss of face. But she wasn’t going to be fazed by it. These were simply teething troubles and she was going to deal with them calmly and coolly. She passed Bob in the corridor. He smiled cheerily.

‘Hey, I hear Mr Cao managed to get you a slide projector after all.’

‘Well, he might have damn well told me!’ she snapped, and slammed the door of her office.

Later, as she sat in the gloom of the darkened lecture room, running through slides of burn victims from Waco, it occurred to her that Bob — and everyone else at the university — must wonder what kind of premenstrual maniac the OICJ had dumped on them. From somewhere in the depths of the depression that had descended upon her, a voice told her that one day she would be able to smile about it all. But at that moment, she doubted it very much.

When she had drawn the blinds she noticed that the fifteen faces in her classroom had gone quite pale. One of the girls asked to be excused and hurried out to the toilet holding a hand over her mouth. Margaret had smiled grimly. ‘These are just photographs. If any of you ever become real cops you’re going to see a hell of a lot worse in the flesh.’ She had thrown the class open for discussion. But not a single student ventured a question or a view. And now, as they filed silently out at the end of the hour, she slumped back in her chair and let out a deep and heartfelt sigh of relief. A knock at the door made her turn her head. Her heart sank at the sight of Bob.

‘How’d it go?’

‘Don’t ask.’

He grinned. ‘Don’t take it personally. They’re like that with everyone at first.’

‘What do you mean?’ She sat up.

‘Well, let me guess. You found them unresponsive, reluctant to answer questions, even more reluctant to ask them or discuss a point?’ She nodded dumbly. ‘Chinese students aren’t used to the kind of interactive classes we have in the US. Here, they tend to be lectured to.’

I know the feeling, Margaret thought bitterly.

Bob continued, unaware of her growing desire to stuff her trainers down his throat. ‘The voice of the teacher is the voice of authority. Most students believe there is only one right answer to any question. So they just memorise stuff. They’re not used to discussing, or debating, or expressing a view. But I’m sure you’ll win them round.’

Margaret searched his face for that sarcasm she heard in his voice again. But again there was no sign of it.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘you’d better get back over to Administration. There’s an old friend waiting to see you in your office.’

Section Chief Chen Anming rose from one of Margaret’s plastic seats and gave her one of his rare, and warm, smiles. ‘Dr Campbell. What a very great pleasure it is to meet you again.’ He pumped her hand enthusiastically.

Margaret might have been hard pushed to place him had it not been for the yellow nicotine streak in his hair, and the fact that Bob had explained to her who he was. ‘Mr Chen.’ She inclined her head towards him. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

‘Perhaps you will not remember me?’ he said.

She had only the vaguest recollection of him. So many students on short courses over the last three years. ‘Of course, I remember you well.’ Then suddenly she did remember — a painting mounted on a scroll that hung on her study wall at home. He had presented it to her, almost ceremonially, on his last day. It was something she looked at often and appreciated, something that had nothing to do with her and Michael, but with her alone. An old man with a wicked grin and bristling beard, squatting on the ground dangling a pair of sandals in one hand. ‘You gave me the painting of the Chinese ghost.’

‘Not a ghost, exactly. A good Chinese spirit.’

‘I’ve never been able to remember his name.’

‘ Zhong Kui . He is a legendary figure.’

So many hours in his company, and only now did she know his name. ‘I had no idea when you gave me it how much pleasure it would give me.’ She thought of those long, dark nights when Zhong Kui ’s roguish smile was the only thing that seemed to keep her sane, when his presence in her home was the only company she could bear. It seemed extraordinary that she should now be reacquainted with her benefactor in this unusual circumstance. And she flushed with guilt at having almost forgotten who he was and, indeed, how the picture had come into her possession. ‘I am sure I must have thanked you at the time. But I am very pleased to be able to thank you again, this time with the knowledge of hindsight.’

‘Forgive me, Doctor.’ He seemed suddenly embarrassed. ‘I know you have only just arrived, and you must be very busy…’ He hesitated. ‘I was wondering… could I, perhaps, ask you for a very special personal favour?’

‘Of course.’ She couldn’t imagine what it might be. ‘Anything.’

‘This is not official, you understand. Just personal,’ he stressed again, and it dawned on Margaret that she was witnessing guanxi in practice. He had presented her with a gift in Chicago. Now he was asking for something in return.