Frank Schätzing - Limit

He was right over the stage.

Even though it was cold, barely furnished and unwelcoming, there was something indefinably lived-in about the room, typical of a place vacated just moments before. An energy that lingered on, unconscious memories stored in the molecules, objects that had been moved, recently breathed air. He went to a table with chairs around it, formica seats on rusty legs, under the table a half-full waste-paper basket. A few open shelves, mattresses on the floor, only one of them in use to judge by the tangled sheets and the pillow. Laptops on the shelves, a printer, stacks of paper, some of it printed. More stacks of comics, magazines, books. The centrepiece was a prehistoric stereo with radio and record player. There were vinyl records ranged along the wall, by the look of them survivors from the time when CDs were still rare. Right now of course CDs were a dying species as well. But you could buy records again, in today’s download era, new records from new bands.

A few of them really were old, though, as Jericho found out when he squatted down to look. He flicked through the sleeves and read the names on the covers. There were examples of Chinese pop and avant-garde, such as Top Floor Circus, Shen Yin Sui Pian, SondTOY and Dead J, but also albums by Genesis, Van der Graaf Generator, King Crimson, Magma and Jethro Tull. There was scarcely a gap in the collection from the sixties and seventies, the era when prog rock was invented. In the eighties it had been fighting a losing battle against punk and New Wave, in the nineties it was on its last legs, in the first decade of the new millennium it seemed to be dead, and the genre owed its revival not to Europeans but to Chinese DJs who had begun to mix it in with dance beats around 2020. This glittering new mixture of concert rock, dance floor and Beijing Opera had been enjoying a boom ever since, with new bands sprouting daily. Popular artists such as Zhong Tong Xi, third-party, IN3 and B6 made whole new worlds of sound from the complex concept albums of the prog era, and the local superstars Mu Ma and Zuo Xiao Zu Zhou organised all-star projects with grand old men of rock such as Peter Hammill, Robert Fripp, Ian Anderson and Christian Vander, filling clubs and concert arenas.

Yoyo’s music.

An omnipresent hum tickled at Jericho’s eardrums. He looked up, spotted a fridge at the back of the room, went over and looked in. It was half full of groceries, mostly untouched fast food. Bottles, full or half full, water, juice, beer, a bottle of Chinese whisky. He breathed in the cold air. The fridge made a clicking sound. A breath of air stroked the back of his neck.

Jericho froze.

That click hadn’t been from the fridge.

The next moment he was flying through the air, to land on one of the mattresses with a dull thud. The impact drove all the air from his lungs. Fast as lightning, he rolled to one side and raised his knees. His attacker lunged for him. Jericho slammed his feet at him. The man leapt back, grabbed an ankle and twisted him about so that he ended up on his stomach. He tried to get up, felt the other man jump on him and drove an elbow backwards in the blind hope of hitting him somewhere it would hurt.

‘Take it easy,’ said a voice that seemed familiar. ‘Or this mattress will be the last thing you see in your life.’

Jericho wriggled. The other man pushed his face deep into the musty fabric. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Panic galvanised him. He flailed wildly around, kicked his legs, but the man pressed him mercilessly down into the mattress.

‘Do we understand one another?’

‘Mmmm,’ said Jericho.

‘Is that a yes?’

‘MMMMMM!’

His tormentor took his hand from the back of his head. The next moment, the weight was gone from his shoulders. Gasping for breath, Jericho rolled onto his back. The good-looking type he had spoken to earlier was leaning above him, and gave him a knife-blade smile.

‘This isn’t where the Pink Asses are playing, simp.’

‘I wouldn’t advise them to.’

‘What are you looking for up here?’

Well, at least they were on speaking terms now. Jericho sat up and pointed at the shabby furniture.

‘You know, I’m a lover of luxury. I was thinking of spending my holidays—’

‘Careful, my friend. I don’t want to hear anything that might make me angry.’

‘Can I show you something?’

‘Give it a try.’

‘It’s on my computer.’ Jericho paused. ‘That’s to say, I’ll have to reach into my jacket, and I’m going to produce a device. I don’t want you thinking it’s a weapon and doing something hasty.’

The man stared at him. Then he grinned.

‘Whatever I do, I can assure you I’ll have the time of my life doing it.’

Jericho called up Yoyo’s image and projected it onto the wall opposite.

‘Have you seen her?’

‘What do you want with her?’

‘I’ll tell you when you’ve answered my question.’

‘You’ve got some nerve, little man.’

‘My name’s Jericho,’ Jericho said patiently. ‘Owen Jericho, private detective. I’m five foot eleven, so don’t call me that. And drop the mind games, I can’t concentrate when someone’s trying to kill me. So, do you know the girl or not?’

The man hesitated.

‘What do you want from Yoyo?’

‘Thank you.’ Jericho switched off the projection. ‘Yoyo’s father, Chen Hongbing, has hired me. He’s worried. Truth to tell, he’s worried sick.’

‘And what makes you think his daughter might be here?’

‘Among other things, your friendly and forthcoming manner. Incidentally, who do I have the pleasure of addressing?’

‘I ask the questions, friend.’

‘All right.’ Jericho raised his hands. ‘Here’s a suggestion. I tell the truth, and you stop the hackneyed dialogue. Can we agree on that?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Your name’s Hmm?’

‘My name’s Bide. Zhao Bide.’

‘Thank you. Yoyo’s living here, right?’

‘It would be a bit much to call it living.’

‘So I see. Look, Chen Hongbing is worried. Yoyo hasn’t been in touch for days, she didn’t turn up for their meeting, he’s a bundle of nerves. My job is to find her.’

‘And do what?’

‘And do nothing.’ Jericho shrugged. ‘Well, I’ll tell her she really should call her father. Do you work here?’

‘In a very loose sense.’

‘Are you one of the City Demons?’

‘One of—’ Something like annoyance flickered in Zhao’s eyes. ‘No, what makes you think so?’

‘It would make sense, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Do I look like one?’

‘Not a clue.’

‘That’s right. You’re clueless.’

‘Right now I think that Yoyo’s closest friends are the City Demons.’

Zhao looked at him mistrustfully.

‘Check my story,’ Jericho added. ‘You’ll find all you need to know about me on the internet. I don’t mean Yoyo any harm. I’m not from the police, I’m not Secret Service, I’m nobody she needs to be afraid of.’

Zhao scratched behind his ear. He seemed at a loss. Then he grabbed Jericho by the upper arm and propelled him towards the door.

‘Let’s go and drink something, little Jericho. If I find out that you’ve been lying to me, I’ll bury you here in Quyu. Alive, just so you know.’

They sat at a café in the sun across from the venue. Zhao ordered, and a girl with so many appliqués stuck onto her shaven scalp that she could have been mistaken for a cyborg brought two bottles of ice-cold beer.

They drank. For a moment, glorious silence reigned.

‘It won’t be easy to find Yoyo,’ Zhao said eventually. He took a long swig at his bottle and belched loudly. ‘It’s not just her father who’s lost sight of her. So have we.’