Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

Michael smiled. ‘It’s already on board.’

As soon as she reached the platform, Margaret recognised the smell of coal smoke funnelling back from the impatiently chuffing steam engine that stood somewhere up ahead in the blackness. Michael hurried her along the platform to coach number seven where they climbed up into a long, narrow corridor. Patterned nets hung on the windows, and blue floral curtains were draped on either side. A red carpet with a gold patterned border led them up to their compartment. It was a far cry, Margaret thought, from her only other experience of travelling by train in China. Then, she had been in hard class, in cold uncomfortable compartments where people spat on the floor and crowded together on butt-numbing hard seats.

‘Here we are,’ Michael said, and waved her into their compartment. Here there was more netting and blue curtain, lace covers on the four berths, and antimacassars on the seat backs.

‘Oh,’ Margaret said, surprised. ‘We’re sharing.’

Michael shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, the production office wasn’t able to get you another compartment at this short notice.’

Margaret laughed. ‘I don’t mean you and I,’ she said. ‘I mean with someone else.’

Michael looked at the bunks and smiled. ‘Well, actually, no,’ he said. ‘I’ve bought all four berths, so we’ve got it to ourselves.’

It was then that she noticed the ice bucket on the table, the gold-wrapped neck of a champagne bottle jutting from it, and a large wicker hamper on the top berth.

Michael slid the door shut. ‘It’s a fourteen-hour journey,’ he said. ‘So I thought a little good food, washed down with some fine champagne, might help pass the time.’

By the time Li returned the Jeep to Section One and cycled home on his uncle’s old bike, his depression about Margaret had turned to apprehension about having to face his sister. If the scan had been successful, then she would know the sex of her unborn child and her decision would have been made. If the scan had been ambiguous in any way, then they would have had to draw fluid from her womb, and a decision would be delayed for four weeks. It was not in Li’s nature to procrastinate, but right now he was praying to his ancestors that the scan had been inconclusive. Much could change in four weeks.

He parked his bicycle in the compound, beneath a corrugated plastic roof, and wearily climbed the two flights to his apartment. He had seen the lights in the windows from the street below, so he knew that Xiao Ling and Xinxin were home. They had probably been back for hours.

Li thought about the sleepy little five-year-old who had kissed him before he left that morning, cuddly, affectionate, pretty — a sweet-tempered little girl, bright and full of life. How could his sister even contemplate having her adopted? She had tried, desperately, to justify it to him. There were thousands of childless Western couples, she said, who were just desperate to adopt little Chinese girls. Xinxin would have a much better life than Xiao Ling could ever give her. Li had shaken his head in despair. He could only assume that Xiao Ling had succumbed to some kind of hormonal insanity that was robbing her of her senses.

He could hear Xinxin crying even before he unlocked the door to the apartment. In the hall, he called out to Xiao Ling, ‘Is everything all right?’ But she did not reply, and Xinxin’s wailing became, if anything, more plaintive. The living room was empty. He hurried down the hall to his uncle’s old bedroom and found Xinxin sitting on the bed alone, breaking her heart. Her eyes were swollen and red, and her voice hoarse. The little bib front of her dress was wet from her tears. In consternation, Li called back down the hall, ‘Xiao Ling?’ But there was no reply. He crouched beside Xinxin and pulled her to him. Her little arms went around his neck and clung on tightly. ‘Where’s your mummy?’ he asked. But the sobs that tugged at her chest made it impossible for her to speak.

Then he saw the envelope on the bedside table, his name written on it in his sister’s hand. He freed an arm from Xinxin’s grasp and tore it open with trembling fingers. ‘Li Yan,’ it said. ‘Please forgive me. I know you will do what is best for Xinxin. I have gone to the home of a friend in Annhui Province to have my baby boy. No one knows me there, so there will be no trouble. All my love, Xiao Ling.’

An occasional cluster of distant lights broke the endless stream of darkness outside the window as their train ploughed slowly but surely south towards the heartland of the Middle Kingdom, and its ancient capital of Xi’an. The empty champagne bottle floated on melted ice, its neck gently clunking on the rim of the bucket. A bottle of Bordeaux, a St Emilion, stood breathing on the table beside two crystal goblets. The debris of their starter, small nuggets of foie gras with salad and toast, on china plates, had been cleared away back into the hamper where a selection of exotic cheeses awaited. Michael had disappeared off to the dining car to organise their main course.

Margaret leaned against the window, the glass cool against the champagne-induced flush of her face. Already it seemed like a lifetime since the train had left Beijing. Flashing glimpses of the floodlit station had illuminated the sky between towering new buildings as they rattled west and south through the city across a great confluence of railroad tracks. She knew she was being romanced and was enjoying every minute of it. It was flattering and exciting, and a little frightening. And it was doing her self-esteem a power of good. She had very deliberately pushed all thoughts of Li off to some distant place where he could not haunt or hurt her. She did not deserve to have to feel guilty. She had to get on with her life. And this seemed as good a starting point as any.

The door slid open and Michael came in smiling. ‘Success,’ he said, and slipped into his seat opposite Margaret. Behind him, a pretty girl in blue uniform with a short-sleeved white blouse and black bow tie carried in a tray with two whole fish on oval plates. The smell of soy, and ginger and onion filled the compartment, rising with the steam from the fish. The girl placed the tray on the table and smiled at Michael. The girls all smiled at Michael, Margaret had noticed. Even the surly attendants who had come to check their tickets and passports. While they had glared at Margaret, their faces had lit up with wide smiles and sparkling eyes when they saw Michael. He had an easy way with women, full of charm and humour. He always made them laugh. When he spoke Chinese to them Margaret had no idea what he said, but they would invariably giggle coyly, responding to the pleasure he so clearly got from flirting with them. She knew that she should feel good about being with someone that other women found so attractive. And she did. But she also knew that it could very quickly become tiresome, breeding insecurity and jealousy.

Michael slipped the girl a few yuan and said something that elicited a giggle before she drifted out into the corridor and slid the door shut behind her. He lifted fish forks and knives out of the hamper and passed a set to Margaret before filling her glass with the pale red St Emilion. ‘I guess the purists would say we should be drinking white with fish,’ he said. ‘But when it comes to Chinese flavours like these, I figure you need something a little more robust to hold its own.’ He raised his glass. ‘To a successful trip.’

Margaret touched her glass to his. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to get me drunk, would you?’

He grinned. ‘If I had to do that,’ he said, ‘it would take the fun out of the chase. Try your fish. It’s usually excellent.’