She gives me a look that would turn a mortal to stone. Mr Lee’s muffled groans are growing faint. I hurry to the point, but drawl my words slowly. It would not do to give away my hand.
‘I heard something that might interest you.’
‘Oh?’
‘You’ll need to unwrap him. If he dies, I won’t tell you.’
‘Tell me.’ Her voice resonates with Celestial command.
Mr Lee stumbles from the effects of her compulsion. His complexion goes grey as the roof tiles.
I flick my hair. ‘You know that Celestial dog-fart doesn’t work on me.’
‘Suit yourself. I don’t want to know, anyway.’
It’s my turn to smooth a non-existent crease. ‘That’s too bad. Poor Lang. I guess you don’t care.’
The sash immediately loosens from around Mr Lee’s face, but doesn’t release him. She’s playing nonchalant, but I caught the way her hands tensed when I mentioned her long-distance boyfriend.
‘What did you hear about Lang?’
‘Agree to fit him a changpao, and shorten his trousers to fit me, and I’ll tell you.’
She glares at me, the longing clear in her eyes, and the suspicion. ‘How do I know what you have is worthwhile?’
‘You don’t.’
I see her struggle between want and wanting to smack me. She knows my information almost always comes from Old Zao or Big Wang himself. The sash unwinds from Mr Lee; he drops to his knees, hand to his throat, gasping for air.
He glares at me. ‘Safe?’ he mouths.
I shrug. He’s not dead. That’s safe enough for me. A long grey changpao appears, hovering beside Mr Lee. I shake my head. ‘Not grey. He’s not an indentured servant. Make it black.’
The changpao changes colour and folds itself on the floor next to Mr Lee.
‘Off you go,’ I tell him. ‘You can change in the next room.’
He staggers to his feet, still scowling at me. My conscience pricks in response but I shake the unwelcome feeling away.
Mr Lee turns to Lady Gi and bows low. ‘This unworthy one labours your procession. May your exalted glory contain this borrowed light. Manifold gratitude by your fortune,’ he says, still a little breathless from being nearly asphyxiated, before disappearing to change.
Lady Gi practically wriggles with pleasure at the fancy platitudes. She eats up that flowery shit.
‘Spill your tea,’ she says, tone razor-edged.
I check my nails, make her wait. When I think she might explode from impatience, I say, ‘I heard Lang managed to get himself a pass to visit Hell.’
She goes limp for moment – her arms, the muscles in her face, I worry she might faint. But then her hand flutters over her chest, and she pats her hair as if Lang might walk in at any moment. ‘Do you know when?’ Her voice is breathless.
‘Next week. Big Wang will let you know the day.’
She holds a dainty hand over her mouth, attempting to hide her emotions. But her eyes glisten. Everyone knows her story – she gets called back for a family dinner with the Jade Emperor once a year. After dinner, she spends the evening with Lang until the sun rises and she has to return to Hell. It’s been that way for centuries.
‘You sometimes play mahjong with those b—’ I catch myself and reset my mouth, ‘emissaries from the Hulijing Court.’
‘Only the junior ones,’ she answers airily, but then her gaze narrows. ‘Why? You hate them. You call them “the foul spawn of rotted carp”, “those bosom-heaving turd for brain bitches”, “the rotted—”’
‘Okay okay,’ I hiss, glancing towards the other room. I press on. ‘Them. Have they been asking about anything out of the ordinary? Or talking about visiting specific places in Hell while they’re here?’
