Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

‘And why is he taking you to Xi’an?’

‘Now that,’ she said, ‘is not a civil question. So do I get my ride or not?’

*

Dusk fell over the city like a grey powder slowly blotting out the light. For a time, as their Jeep careered in and out of cycle lanes, siren wailing, red light flashing, the sun had sent long shadows to meet them and blinded them through the windscreen. Now it was gone, and the red streaks in the sky were fading through blue into black. There were times when Li, squeezing between buses and taxis, had turned the three lanes of the westbound carriageway of the third ring road into four. Margaret watched his concentration as he leaned frequently on the horn to supplement the siren, muttering to himself in between drags on his cigarette, almost as if she wasn’t there. He had not spoken to her since they left Section One. And her naked fear had banished all thoughts of conversation as he drove, like a man possessed, through the evening rush hour.

He checked his watch and appeared to relax a little. He glanced across at her for the first time. ‘We might just make it,’ he said.

‘I’m glad,’ she said, a hint of acid in her tone. ‘I’d hate to think I’d aged ten years in vain.’

‘And I would hate to think,’ he said, looking straight ahead again, ‘that a mere murder investigation would get in the way of your love life.’

‘You know what your trouble is?’ she said, controlling the urge to tell him exactly where he could go. ‘Your grasp of English is far too good. Your uncle taught you well, but he should have told you that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.’

‘Who said I was being witty?’

‘Well, certainly not me!’ She glared at him, then relaxed. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘since you are clearly so anxious to know, the relationship between Michael and me is strictly platonic. You know what platonic is, don’t you?’

He nodded. ‘It’s the word people always use to describe their relationship with someone just before they sleep with them.’ But he wasn’t smiling. His mouth was set in a grim line as he swung the Jeep off the ring road on to the flyover leading to the Tianningsi Bridge.

Margaret was stung. Not so much by the barb in Li’s words, but by the truth of them. And she wondered just why she had agreed to go to Xi’an with Michael, and knew at once that it wasn’t to fulfil a life’s ambition to see the Terracotta Warriors. She felt a churning in her stomach, and that fear that fluttered so elusively in her breast. What in God’s name was she doing? She stole a glance at Li. She had stopped seeing him as Chinese again. Just as Li Yan. And she had seen the warmth and sparkle return to his eyes as they had fenced verbally at Section One, and again in the Jeep. She knew, without daring to let the thought crystallise in her mind, that she still loved him. But what point was there in it? It was as foolish and impossible as a teenager falling for a rock star. Li had made it clear. They had no future.

His focus appeared to be entirely on the traffic as he weaved between vehicles along Lianhuachidong Road. Suddenly he leaned forward and pointed out to their left. ‘Beijing West Railway Station,’ he said.

Margaret looked out, and in the fading light saw a vast structure rising out of sweeping flyovers to east and west, outlined in neon and dazzling in the glare of coloured arc lights. Huge towers rose in ascending symmetry to a colossal centrepiece of three roofs, one atop the other, curling eaves raised on towering columns. ‘Jesus,’ she whispered breathlessly. ‘It’s vast!’ It was bigger than most airports she had been in.

‘Biggest railway station in the world,’ Li said. And he swung off the road on to a ramp that swept them up and round to a multi-lane highway running parallel with a main concourse thick with arriving and departing passengers. He drew the Jeep into the kerb, jumped on to the concourse and lifted Margaret’s bag out for her as the siren wound down and tailed off to a throaty splutter.

Margaret grasped her bag and looked up in awe at the station looming over her. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘How will I ever find Michael?’

But to Li’s disappointment he saw an anxious-faced Michael pushing through the crowds towards them. ‘I think he’s found you,’ he said.

Michael arrived breathless and flushed and immediately took Margaret’s bag. ‘Thank Heaven, Margaret. I thought for a while there you weren’t going to make it.’

‘With my own personal police escort, there was never any danger,’ Margaret said, glancing at Li.

Michael looked at him and nodded. He held out his hand. ‘We meet again, Mr Li.’

Li was taken aback that Michael remembered his name and wondered if he had been a subject of discussion between Michael and Margaret. ‘Mr Zimmerman,’ he said politely. Their hands clasped firmly. Perhaps a little too firmly, and the air between them stiffened with an electric tension. And Li became aware, vaguely, almost sub-consciously, of something familiar about this man. He searched his face for some sign, some clue, but the familiarity, strangely, seemed somehow not quite physical.

The moment passed, as quickly as it had come, and they let go each other’s hands. Michael checked his watch and said to Margaret, ‘We’ll have to hurry.’ And to Li, ‘Thanks for getting her here on time.’

Li resisted a powerful urge to punch him and turned instead to Margaret. ‘Enjoy your trip.’ His words seemed stiff and formal.

She nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and then she and Michael were off, hurrying through the crowds towards the main entrance. Li stood for a moment, watching them, and a cloud of depression, as dense as the darkness that had fallen, enveloped him.

*

The interior concourse of Beijing West Railway Station was daunting, cavernous and crowded with people responding to a bewildering array of electronic information displayed from gantries on all sides. Above the hubbub of thousands of passengers rose the soft voice of a female announcer, hypnotically repeating the arrival and departure times of trains in Chinese and English. A huge, gaping hole fed escalators up and down to lower levels. Along either side, between banks of ticket desks, shops sold everything from pomegranates to pop sox. You could buy what Margaret thought were polystyrene containers of noodles smothered in spicy sauces from an array of fast-food joints. The polystyrene, Michael assured her, was not polystyrene, but compressed straw. Biodegradable. China’s contribution to world ecology.

A broad corridor shimmered off into the multicoloured neon distance, feeding left and right into huge waiting rooms for the various platforms. Giant multiscreen television displays were playing environmental awareness ads in between pop videos. Michael took Margaret’s hand and led her quickly through the crowds, past the escalators, turning left towards the entrance to the No. 1 Soft Seat Waiting Room.

At the door, a young girl in green uniform and a peaked cap several sizes too large, checked their passports and tickets before granting them access to the rarefied atmosphere and spacious luxury of the soft sleeper waiting room where only the privileged and wealthy were allowed. Comfortable green leather seats were ranged around coffee tables beneath a copper-coloured mural depicting scenes from Chinese history. Margaret caught a whiff of burning incense as they passed the toilets, before being whisked to the far end of the waiting room. There a ticket attendant clipped the tickets that Michael presented, and they were waved through. They ran along a corridor, past hard-class waiting rooms, before turning left down a steep flight of steps leading to platform six.

‘Wait!’ Margaret said suddenly. ‘Your luggage!’