‘Ah Lang, you’re making us lose! Stop with the loving eyes.’
‘Oh petal—’
‘Drink!’ I’m shrieking from laughter. Every time Lang opens his mouth, they both have to drink. He can’t seem to help himself.
It doesn’t take long for Gigi to get her own back, and I have to drink every time Mr Lee turns his shining eyes on me. He can’t seem to help himself either. Somehow, I find myself holding a bottle of salted caramel vodka. Mr Lee tries to wrest the bottle from me so I try to drink it dry before he can take it away.
‘Give that back,’ Gigi slurs, pointing at my bottle. ‘It’s miiine. I’m thiiiiirsty!’
I clutch the bottle tight. ‘Get your own.’
‘Okay,’ Gigi says with a happy grin. From the depths of her sleeves, she pulls out another bottle. ‘I am magic!’
‘She got the waiter to bring two bottles,’ Ah Lang explains.
‘Sly old demon,’ I cackle.
‘I am no demon. I am a goddess.’ She throws her shoulders back, pushing out her cleavage so the fabric strains dangerously. At a look from me, she tosses her head. ‘I know. Drink.’
She takes another swig from her bottle. With a goofy grin, she slowly tips towards Ah Lang, like an elegant bamboo falling in the forest, and promptly passes out. Ah Lang nimbly catches both her and the vodka bottle as it slips from her hands.
I throw my arms in the air. ‘Wansui! Zhabei here we come.’
Seventeen
Checkpoint
i am curled up in the back of a fancy black car, hiding behind my mauve sunglasses and feeling like I ought to crawl into a coffin somewhere. Big Wang’s man Willie turned up at the hotel at stupid o’clock, hauling us all out of bed. There’d been some disquiet with the Japanese forces so he decided to drive us to Zhabei himself to ensure we would not be troubled.
This early the streets are quiet, but the sun fills the space with a loud intensity that stabs through my eyes, straight to the back of my head. We’re heading to see the old woman at the Hokkien Market who sold the talisman to Mr Lee, but I’m not sure I can speak without vomiting. Maybe a drinking wager wasn’t my best idea. Ah Lang lounges on the small fold-out seat facing us as if he’s sitting on a throne; one arm casually draped across the back of the front seat. He’s far too cheerful. Gigi sits next to me, slumped in the caramel leather seat, her head leaning on the open window frame. She’s wrapped in a frothy dress, a pale lemon yellow confection with her usual long flowing sleeves. A pair of hastily purchased sunglasses perch on her paler-than-normal face. At least she looks worse than I feel, which makes me feel marginally less like rolling into the gutter and letting the roosters have me.
Mr Lee sits up front, which is a good thing. Even with the windows open, my throat burns from the persimmon sweetness swirling in the car.
I’ve never gone this long without blood, and I’m acutely aware of the smell. Lang and Gigi’s gingery scent gives me something else to focus on, as does Willie’s odd combination of scents. The occasional waft of raw sewage, while disgusting, also helps quell the burn. I clutch my purse, still full of sweets, though I can’t quite face eating anything right now.
‘Ronin ahead,’ Willie says.
Mr Lee stiffens. I’ve heard of them. The Japanese volunteer police force. Brutal and merciless. A good many of the ghosts arriving on the ferries were the result of encounters with the ronin. Willie rolls the car to a stop in front of a makeshift barrier of sandbags. Ronin in brown uniforms with white armbands surround the car. They all wear black boots with rubber soles, the toe-box split in two like the cloven hooves of goats. The one closest to the driver side door waves a rifle topped with a blood-stained bayonet and shouts at Willie; his words are rapid-fire. He has the same black hair and dark brown eyes as we do. His face still has the roundness of youth, smooth and unlined, but his eyes are hard and his face is full of contempt.
‘Don’t make sudden movements.’ Willie’s voice is low; he doesn’t look at us as he speaks. He produces a red booklet and holds it open for the shouting ronin. ‘I’m here at Y. L. Wang’s behest,’ Willie says, his voice full of calm authority.
‘Did I tell you to speak? Get out,’ the ronin snarls in heavily accented Mandarin. He yanks open the driver-side door and jabs the bayonet to Willie’s throat.
A ronin on the other side of the car speaks – his words staccato like the rat-a-tat-tat of an artillery gun; I catch the word Wang and a nervous undercurrent. The first one holding the bayonet to Willie frowns. Uncertainty crosses his face, but then his expression shutters, and he barks something back. I don’t have to understand the language to know the other man’s concerns have been dismissed.
‘Lady Gi, would you do the honours?’ Willie says.
Gigi groans, but pushes up from the seat. ‘I’ll try not to vomit,’ she says and leans out the window. She slides her silver framed sunglasses down her nose to peer at the ronin. At the movement, he swings his rifle from Willie towards her, but then, on seeing her, and more particularly, on noting Gigi’s low-cut top and her feminine assets heaving from their pale yellow confines, his lips curl into a leer.
The other ronin have carefully shuffled away from the car, their gazes darting between their sneering comrade and us.
‘He’s not really that stupid, is he?’ I whisper.
Gigi’s hand grips mine, squeezes as if to sayhush.The ronin takes a step closer. I glance at Ah Lang in the seat opposite me. His lack of anxiety is reassuring. The ronin reaches out, intending to grab Gigi.
Before he can touch her, Gigi says, ‘Stop.’ Her voice, barely a whisper, rings clear in the early morning stillness; within the single word skitters the susurrus of many whispering voices, like insects scattering in the dark.
The ronin stumbles backwards, shoulders pulled tight around his neck. His comrades, already a distance from our car, run. Hells, I want to do the same. Ah Lang has Mr Lee by the shoulder, murmuring reassurances to him.
