Mo Hayder - The Devil of Nanking aka Tokyo

But she sat silent and obstinate, her face closed in on itself, while I paced round the room, my frustration wanting to burst out of me. How can she be so foolish – to put our baby’s health in jeopardy? Eventually, with a supreme struggle of will, I turned my back on the eggs, slammed the door and went into my study, where I have been sitting ever since, unable to concentrate on anything.

Nanking, 17 December 1937, afternoon

As I was writing the last entry something happened. I had to stop and put my pen down and raise my head in wonder. A smell drifted through the shuttered windows. A smell both terrible and wonderful. The smell of meat cooking! Someone nearby is cooking meat. The smell shot me from my desk and sent me to the shutters, where I stood, trembling, my nose to the gaps, hungrily sucking in the air. I imagined a family – maybe only in the next alley – sitting round the table, looking at fluffy piles of rice, corn cakes, succulent pork. Could it be the thieves, cooking what they stole from us? If it is they’ve forgotten the legend of the beggar’s chicken, they’ve forgotten what every thief in Jiangsu should know – to cook stolen food underground and not in the open air, where the smell advertises itself to everyone.

I have to stop myself rising from the table, seduced by that aroma. It is so sweet, so pungent. It has decided me. If people feel safe enough to cook lunch so openly – to allow the smell to drift wantonly through the streets, then peace can only be hours away. It must be safe to go outside. I am going out now. I’m going to find food for Shujin.

Not a plant. That was what Shi Chongming had said. Not a plant.

That morning I thought about this, poring over my textbooks sitting hunched on the steamer chair. I had been reading for almost an hour when something distracted me. Less than a foot away from my feet, a cicada nymph was dragging itself out of the ground, first a feeler, then a tiny face like a newborn dragon. I put down my book and watched it. It crept a short way up a piece of rotten wood and, after a few minutes of resting, began the laborious process of pulling its wings out of its shell, one at a time, painfully slowly, the casing flaking off in iridescent slivers. I’d read in one of the books that the wings of cicadas could be used in a traditional cure for earache. I thought of the dried powder clinging to the sides of Fuyuki’s glass. It’s not a plant you’re looking for. If not a plant then…?

The beetle straightened, new and confused, its wings white-webbed with birth, looking around itself. Why was it coming out now? All the cicadas had come and gone weeks ago.

‘What’re you dreaming about?’

I jumped. Jason had come through the wisteria tunnel and was standing a few feet away from me, holding a mug of coffee. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt; his face was clear and tanned. He was staring at my exposed legs and arms, a look on his face as if they reminded him of something.

Instinctively I folded my arms round my knees and bent forward a little, hunching over the book I’d been reading. ‘A cicada,’ I said. ‘See?’

He squatted down and looked, shielding his eyes with his hand. His arms were the colour of burnt butter and he must have had his hair cut that morning, because I could see the round shape of his head, and the nice slope of his neck where it met his shoulders. The hair-cut had revealed a small mole just below his ear.

‘I thought they should all be dead,’ I said. ‘I thought it was too cold.’

‘But it’s hot today,’ he said. ‘And, anyway, all manner of weird shit goes on in this garden, you know. Ask Svetlana. The rules are suspended.’

He came and settled down on the steamer chair next to me, the coffee cup resting on his thigh, his feet crossed. ‘The baba yaga s’ve gone to Yoyogi Park to watch the rockabilly boys,’ he said. ‘We’re all alone.’

I didn’t answer. I bit my lip and stared at the gallery windows.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘Well what?’

‘What were you thinking about?’

‘I wasn’t. I was thinking about… about nothing.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘Nothing,’ I repeated.

‘Yes. I heard.’ He finished his coffee, up-ended the cup so a few mud-brown drops fell on to the dry earth. Then he looked sideways at me and said, ‘Tell me something.’

‘Tell you what?’

‘Tell me – why do I keep staring at you?’

I dropped my eyes and fiddled with the book cover, pretending he hadn’t spoken.

‘I said, why do I want to stare at you? Why do I keep looking at you and thinking that you’re hiding something that I’d find really interesting?’

All of a sudden, in spite of the sun, my skin seemed cold. I blinked at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, in a voice that sounded small and distant. ‘What did you say?’

‘You’re hiding something.’ He raised his arms and used the sleeves of his T-shirt to wipe his forehead. ‘It’s easy. I just look at you and I can see it. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I’ve got the – the instinct it’s something I’m going to like. See I’m a…’ he raised two fingers and lightly tapped his forehead ‘… I’m a visionary when it comes to women. I can feel it in the air. My God, my skin.’ He shivered and ran his hands down his arms. ‘My skin just about changes colour.’

‘You’re wrong.’ I wrapped my hands round my stomach. ‘I’m not hiding anything.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘I’m not.’

He looked at me in amusement. For a moment I thought he was going to laugh. Instead he sighed. He got to his feet and stood, stretching languidly, running his hands up and down his arms, ruffling his T-shirt, giving me glimpses of his flat abdomen. ‘No,’ he said, squinting thoughtfully up at the sky. ‘No.’ He dropped his hands and turned in the direction of the wisteria tunnel. ‘Of course you’re not.’

I once read a story about a Japanese girl trapped in a garden when the cicadas came out of the ground. They all came at once. She looked up at one moment and there they were, everywhere, colonizing the air and the trees, so many that the branches were loaded and drooping. All around her the soil was pockmarked, a million maiden flights going up into the branches, the noise getting louder, echoing around the walls until it was almost deafening. Terrified, she ran for shelter, crushing cicadas, hopelessly fracturing their wings, cracking them out of their protective cases so they squealed and spun on the ground like broken catherine wheels, round and round, a blur of brown and black wings. When at last she found a way out of the garden she ran straight into the arms of a boy, who caught her up and carried her to safety. She didn’t know it then but the cicadas had been a blessing. This was the boy she was destined to love. One day she’d become his wife.

I jumped. Something had hit my foot. I sat up quickly, looking around blearily. The garden was different – dark. The sun had gone. I’d been lost in a daydream. In my dream it was Jason who caught up the girl and carried her away. His shirt was open at the neck and as he carried her he was whispering something rude and seductive into her ear, making her blush and cover her face. Something hit my arm and I stumbled off the chair in shock, dropping my books. Everywhere little dimples were appearing in the earth, dust flying up as if from bullet hits. Rain. It was only rain, but I was still in the story, with the Japanese girl, a million beetles jumping from the dust and catching in her hair. The drops on my bare skin were like acid. Quickly I gathered up as many books as I could, and raced across the garden to the wisteria tunnel.