Peter May - The Fourth Sacrifice

‘Shall I get you another?’ Michael asked.

‘No. It would only encourage me to get drunk.’ She paused selfconsciously, then added quickly, ‘And, besides, the waiters in here aren’t up to much.’

He smiled, but had sensed in her the melancholy she had immediately tried to disguise. He said, ‘You’ve had a rough few months.’

She flashed him a look, more defensive than hostile. ‘And you’d know all about that.’

He shrugged. ‘No. All I really know is that you’re the lady who put out those scare stories on the Net about genetically contaminated rice.’

‘They weren’t scare stories,’ she almost snapped.

‘Hey,’ he said, and raised his palms protectively. ‘I don’t know about you, but I figure that claims that half the population of the world is at risk are pretty scary.’

She relented a little and forced a half-hearted smile. ‘We feared the worst. You should just be glad it didn’t turn out that way in the end. But don’t underestimate it. OK, so the virus wasn’t there in all the rice, and thank God a lot of people turned out to have a natural immunity, but there are still millions of people at risk.’

‘I read they think there’s a cure just around the corner.’

‘Well, let’s hope they’re right.’

There was an awkward pause. Then Michael said, ‘So, I suppose it’s you to blame for us having to eat all these goddamn noodles. Boy, that must have made you popular with the Chinese.’

She grinned sheepishly. ‘Another few weeks and the first new crop’ll be in. They just went back to the old, natural seed. And they can harvest three crops a year, so they’ll get their precious rice back soon enough.’

They stood in silence then, listening to the strange cadences of the traditional Chinese music, the wail of the two-stringed erh hu violin, the haunting breath of the purple bamboo flute, the two moons dancing, and the twang of the dulcimer. Margaret had no idea what to say. She had just dismissed the last three months of her life in a sentence, and made light of it, as if none of it had ever really mattered. She was aware of Michael’s sheer physicality as he stood silently at her shoulder. How was it possible, she wondered, that she could be attracted to this man when her relationship with Li had left her so raw? The thought scared her a little. And she remembered what it was most people usually forgot — that there was no such thing as harmless flirting.

‘I’d better go,’ she said.

‘You’ve only just arrived.’

‘Yeah, but it’s your party. I don’t want to monopolise you.’

‘You can monopolise me any time.’

She glanced at him, looking for the smile, but he wasn’t smiling, and she felt a flutter of fear in her breast, like a butterfly trapped just beneath the skin. But, then, suddenly she felt him relax again.

‘Look, why don’t you come out to location tomorrow? We’re setting up some dramatic recreations at the Ming Tombs. It’s only an hour out of Beijing.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ she said. ‘I have a flight to catch in the morning.’

He frowned. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Home,’ she said simply.

He seemed confused. ‘Home being where?’

‘Chicago.’

‘When’ll you be back?’

‘Never,’ she said, and the finality of the word struck her like a blow, bringing her to her senses. ‘I really do have to go.’

‘Hi, how are you two getting on?’ They both turned at the sound of Sophie’s voice as she stepped on to the terrace.

‘You didn’t tell me she was leaving tomorrow,’ Michael said, almost a hint of accusation in his voice. He turned to Margaret. ‘And we haven’t even been properly introduced.’

‘Probably better that way,’ Margaret said. ‘If you never say hello, you never have to say goodbye.’ She turned to Sophie. ‘Thanks for the invite. I’ve enjoyed it. But I still have my packing to do.’ She forced a smile and nodded, and pushed off through the dining room, bumping shoulders with guests down the length of the long lounge. She retrieved her things from the cloakroom and hurried through the big red doors and down the steps into the cool evening.

In the street she stopped for a breath. The sound of the music had receded to a distant tinkle. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself. It had been her first encounter with real life, with normality, for far too long. And it had been much too heady. Like the first draw on a cigarette after years of abstinence. She would have to break herself in more gently.

He heard Margaret calling for help. Long, insistent cries. But he couldn’t see her — only a flickering glimmer of light somewhere beyond this darkness that enveloped him like a web, entrapping him in its blind, sticky mesh. But the plaintiveness of her voice was gut-wrenching, and he knew he could not reach her, could not help. He sat bolt upright, suddenly awake, lathered in sweat, entangled in the bed sheet. And the long, single ring of the telephone in the living room pierced his consciousness. He leaped quickly out of bed and was halfway down the hall, intent on reaching the phone so it wouldn’t waken his uncle, before he remembered that Yifu was dead. And the memory came like a blow in the solar plexus, painful, sickening. He almost cried out from the pain. He clattered breathlessly into the living room, and in the darkness knocked over the tiny telephone table. The phone rattled away across the linoleum, the receiver tumbling from its cradle. He could hear a strange and disembodied voice in the dark. ‘ Wei … wei … ’ Scrambling naked across the floor, struggling to see in the reflected glow of the streetlight outside, he finally found the receiver. ‘Li Yan.’

‘Deputy Section Chief, this is the duty officer at Beixinqiao Santiao. There’s been another murder.’

Li had retrieved the rest of the phone by now and turned on a lamp beside the sofa. He sat down and glanced at his watch. It was 4 a.m. ‘Another beheading?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Where?’

‘An apartment on the fourth floor at No. 7 Tuan Jie Hu Dongli in Chaoyang District.’

‘Who’s out there?’

‘Detective Qian left a few minutes ago. Do you want me to send a car?’

‘No, it’ll be as quick by bike. I’m on my way.’

Li hung up and sat for a moment, heart pounding, breathing hard. Another murder. He felt sick. Then he wondered if he would ever get used to his uncle not being there. That quiet voice so full of calm and reason, a wisdom and intelligence that Li knew he could never aspire to. He rubbed his face vigorously to try to banish the final vestiges of sleep, and the cloud of depression that hung over him whenever he thought about Yifu. He wished he believed in ghosts. He wished that Yifu would come back and haunt him, not just be there in his mind, in his memories. And yet he knew that a part of his uncle lived on in him. He still had a responsibility to him, and a hell of a lot to live up to. It had never been easy to walk in the footsteps of one of the most revered police officers in Beijing while he was alive. It was even harder now that he was gone.

Li went back to his bedroom and pulled on his jeans, a pair of trainers and a white tee shirt. He took his black leather jacket from the wardrobe and checked that he had cigarettes and his maroon Public Security ID wallet. He lit a cigarette and screwed up his face at the foul taste of it. He paused for a moment, then on an impulse he went into his uncle’s bedroom. He’d left it just as the old man kept it when he was alive. Personal things laid out neatly on the dresser, pictures on the wall; a photograph of Yifu as a young police officer setting off for Tibet in 1950; a picture of Yifu and his wife — the aunt Li had never met; a photograph of Yifu at his retirement banquet, his round face beaming broadly below a mop of curling black hair, a glaze over his normally bright eyes — he had drunk far too much beer. Li smiled and touched the picture, as if in touching the image of his uncle he could somehow reach him again in some other life. But it was just glass beneath his fingers, cold and lifeless. He turned quickly and switched out the light, and hurried from the apartment.