Peter May - The Firemaker

With a tiny jab of remorse, Li heard an echo of himself in this, how he felt about his uncle, the passion with which he’d defended him to Yongli just an hour earlier. He heard the same passion in Lotus, and couldn’t doubt the sincerity in her eyes. He nodded and said, ‘I don’t want to see him hurt either.’

‘Fresh orange juice and ice, is that all right?’ Yongli put the glass on the table in front of her and sat down. ‘Sorry it took so long.’

Lotus smiled at him. ‘Fresh orange is fine,’ she said. She took a long draught, then put it down again, half finished. ‘But I’m sorry, lover, I’ve got to go get ready.’

‘Hey, that’s okay.’ He leaned over to brush her lips with his. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks.’ She stood up and smiled at Li. ‘See you later?’

Li shrugged. ‘Maybe not. I’ve got an early start.’

‘Next time, then.’ She touched Yongli’s face lightly with her fingers and moved away, gliding elegantly between the tables towards the stair. Yongli watched her go, doe-eyed and smitten, before becoming suddenly self-conscious and turning back to Li.

‘So what were you two talking about?’ There was a hint of anxiety in his voice.

‘You.’

‘Pretty boring topic of conversation.’

‘That’s what we decided, so we stopped.’

Yongli grinned. ‘You’re not really going to bail out early, are you?’

Li smiled and nodded. ‘I really am.’

Yongli shook his head. ‘You know, what you really need is to get yourself laid.’

‘You already told me.’

‘No, but really . I mean, what about this “young”, “attractive” American pathologist of yours? Sounds to me like she could get your juices flowing.’

Li laughed. ‘Gimme a break! She’s a yangguizi .’

‘So what?’ Yongli punched him mock-playfully on the arm. ‘You could turn on the charm if you wanted to. And she’d fall in a dead faint at your feet.’

Margaret cursed Li roundly. He was an arrogant, charmless, chauvinistic bastard! The doors of the elevator slid shut and she pressed the button for the ground floor. She saw herself reflected in the polished brass and realised she hadn’t even bothered putting on any make-up. She had simply changed into her jeans and a tee-shirt, a pair of open-toed sandals, grabbed her keycard and headed for the elevator. A couple of young attendants sitting playing cards cast curious glances at her through the open door of a utility room as she stalked past. She had noticed before that there always seemed to be cleaners or attendants around on her floor when she came and went. Always nodding and smiling and saying, ‘ Ni hao .’ If she had thought about it at all, she might have been faintly surprised that they were still there at midnight. But her brain was otherwise engaged, and she needed a drink.

She couldn’t get Li Yan out of her head: his initial hostility, then his grudging acceptance of her professional expertise, followed by his warmth over lunch, and then his coldness after it, crowned by his refusal to accept her further help. She was glad, she told herself. She certainly had no desire to be where she wasn’t wanted. And she had no time for the mood swings and preconceptions of some precious Chinese policeman with a thing against foreigners. What was the word Bob had used…? Yangguizi . That was it. Foreign devil! It was sheer bloody-minded xenophobia!

Her mind had been full of such thoughts all evening. Anger, revenge, the things she would say if she ever got the chance. And then she would remember a moment over lunch when he had smiled at her, dark eyes full of mischief, the soft-spoken quality of his voice, his gently accented English with its errant emphasis on odd syllables. And it would infuriate her that there was something about him she found attractive, and then she would recall the humiliation she felt when summoned to Professor Jiang’s office for the second time that day. And the anger would flood back.

The hotel lobby was deserted as she strode through the south wing past reception and down steps to the bar beyond. There were still a dozen or more people sitting at tables in twos and threes, downing nightcaps and indulging in loquacious post-dinner conversation. Margaret paid them little attention, hoisting herself on to a bar stool and demanding a vodka tonic with ice and lemon, then deciding to make it a large one. The barman responded quickly, pouring her drink, and then laying out a square of white paper napkin, a small bowl of raw peanuts, and a tall glass that was misting already from the chill of the ice. She flashed her keycard at him, and as he opened an account, she took a long pull at the vodka and felt the alcohol flooding almost immediately into her bloodstream and into her brain, like a long, cool wave of relief. She started to relax, took a handful of nuts, and looked around the bar. There was a young Chinese couple smooching at a table against the far wall. A noisy group of three Japanese businessmen quaffing large tumblers of whisky. A short, middle-aged man who… Her heart took a jolt as she realised it was McCord. He was slumped in a seat at a corner table looking considerably dishevelled. Strands of greasy grey hair had broken free of the oil he used to plaster it to his scalp, and fell in loops across a forehead beaded with perspiration. His face was the colour and texture of putty, bloodshot eyes rolling drunkenly. A half-empty glass of Scotch was held in his hand at a precarious angle, and he appeared to be muttering to himself. She turned to the barman, flicking her head in McCord’s direction. ‘Has he been here long?’

‘ Long time,’ the barman said solemnly.

She took another stiff pull at the vodka, warmed up her indignation, and headed across the bar to McCord’s table. ‘Mind if I join you?’ she asked, and sat down without waiting for an answer.

His head jerked up from some alcoholic reverie and he looked at her, startled, and for a moment, she thought, almost scared. ‘What d’you want?’ he barked, screwing up his eyes and peering at her in the gloom of the bar. It was obvious he didn’t recognise her.

‘Margaret Campbell?’ she said, trying to awaken some recollection in him. ‘Dr Margaret Campbell? You ruined my welcome banquet, remember?’ He glared at her. ‘I just wanted to say, thanks a million.’

He curled a lip and drained his glass. ‘Why don’t you fuck off?’ he slurred. And he got unsteadily to his feet and lurched out of the bar.

She sat for a moment in suspended animation. Handled that well, Margaret, she told herself, and then slumped back in her seat feeling suddenly very tired indeed. As she took the remaining few gulps of her vodka, she glanced at the English-language China Daily lying on the seat next to where McCord had been sitting. The headlines washed over her. Something about the House of Representatives approving the US President’s decision to continue China’s Most Favoured Nation trading status. An item about the completion of the laying of a three-thousand-kilometre fibre optic cable to Tibet. A piece about a 20 per cent increase in the export of rice from China to the rest of the world. None of it held her interest. To bed, she thought. To sleep, perchance to dream… She crossed to the bar to sign her bill.

When she got back to her room, Margaret kicked off her sandals and undressed quickly. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, white skin almost blue in the hard electric light. The frail, skinny girl that looked back at her was almost unrecognisable as herself. She was a hard-bitten, experienced forensic pathologist into her fourth decade. She’d been around, she’d seen a bit. And yet it was a child that stared at her out of the mirror. A child abused by life, hiding behind her job, her anger, whatever other barriers she could raise. But in her nakedness, in a strange hotel room on her own, thousands of miles from home, there were no barriers that could hide her from herself. She remembered why she had come here, and was engulfed by a huge wave of self-pity and loneliness. The air-conditioning raised goose bumps all over her skin. She dropped on to the bed, wrapping the sheets around her, curling up into the fetal position. The first teardrop splashed on the pillow, and she cried herself to sleep.