I swap hands. He grasps mine in his, his skin almost hot to the touch. Humans must run hotter than yaojing. He pumps our joined hands up and down three times. It’s most peculiar. Then he lets go.
‘There. That’s it, deal sealed,’ he says.
I rattle off what the Beijinger said, but without the gravel.
‘Are the notes standardised?’
The ghost answers, and I translate. ‘No. It’s whatever joss is sent across. Money, rings, wallets, little model houses, model cars, it’s always a surprise. The mortals can be very inventive. We’ve had quite a lot of roosters in the past year.’ The mention of roosters makes my temper flare and I have stop and count to ten, before I’m calm enough to continue translating. ‘Sometimes the notes are large, sometimes they’re square, sometimes rectangular. Sometimes they’re ingots. We get all sorts, sometimes we even get joss jewels.’
‘Abundant gratitude to honourable sir.’ Mr Lee bends low at the waist.
The ghost understands this, at least. ‘May sherrr,’ he says, the northern colloquial for ‘no problem’.
We leave the Custom House and return to the Bund. The street is busier now. A group of jiangshi hop along the road; I count six. Their heads twist as they scent the mortal, and immediately turn towards us, mouths open wide.
Mr Lee makes a strangled sound. I slam the sword pole against the ground, then make a show of waving Mafan at them, channelling my yin energy into the weapon so blue flames leap high from the blade. The jiangshi pause. Their yin qi is slightly more cultivated than that of a ghost, which means a slice from Mafan wouldn’t end their existence, but their lack of cultivation means they can’t heal like most other yaojing either. Their heads swivel in unison as they watch the sword swing back and forth. Slowly, their mouths close. I breathe a very shallow sigh of relief. Again, in unison, their gazes shift to Mr Lee, to the red characters glowing on his forehead. The jiangshi bow low, then turn to leave.
I don’t know what possesses me, but I call after them. ‘Wait!’
Mr Lee grabs my arm. ‘What are you doing?’
I shake him off and stride up to the jiangshi. It can’t hurt to try.
‘With the authority vested in me by the sword of Hell, I, Lady Jing, bid honourable Uncles to visit Mistress Ya and request her Orchid Breath Lozenges. Uncles, you need to do something about your breath. It is diabolically disgusting.’
The jiangshi glance at each other, taken aback. I suspect they have few interactions with other yaojing. Yaojing understand the hunger for yang energy; they do not understand the hunger for blood. They consider it an abomination.
The jiangshi bow as one. When they rise, they say in eerie unison, ‘Our abundant gratitude, Lady Jing. We have cleaned our ears and received your words.’ They hop on their way.
I fan the air a little before daring to inhale. I look around for Mr Lee, who is hiding behind a tree.
‘They won’t eat you. You’ve got Big Wang’s mark and Mafan here to protect you.’
He emerges from behind the tree. His lips are as white as a lady ghost’s and his hands tremble as he smooths down his hair. It occurs to me that he’s been putting on a brave face this whole time.
‘I-I promised you my trousers,’ he says, trying to make light. ‘You said you knew a place. Shall we?’
He puts out his arm again. And I understand now this gesture isn’t for my benefit.
When I was small and had first arrived in Shanghai, I tagged along behind Bullhead and Horsey on their rounds through the city. The first time I met Granny Bones, I wouldn’t stop crying. She was in her true form – a white skeleton – and her movements triggered a cascade of clicks that made me think of skittering cockroaches. Horsey scolded me for being disrespectful to an elder, but Bullhead simply took my hand. That small gesture made me feel a little braver. A little less alone.
I link my arm through Mr Lee’s and feel him jump. He looks at me for a long moment.
‘I need to hold on to you in case you run away,’ I say. ‘I’ll get in a lot of trouble if I lose you. Now, let’s go. I want you out of those trousers.’
Mr Lee chokes. He tries to maintain his composure, but the high pink in his cheeks gives him away. He pats my linked arm. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t wish to make you wait unduly, Lady Jing.’
I give him a dignified, somewhat snooty nod. He inclines his head with an equally prim expression. I have an almost overwhelming urge to giggle, which I stomp flat. But I do allow myself a small smile as I lead him towards the Old City.
Nine
New Clothes
As we pass through the Northern Gate, a low tunnel through the fortified wall, Mr Lee marvels, ‘Hardly any of the original Old City wall remains in my Shanghai.’
I nod. I’ve heard many tourists exclaim the same thing.
‘What’s your favourite part of Shanghai?’ he asks.
