A decrepit old man sat in a large armchair with his feet placed in a bucket of cold water. His eyes were closed. He held an old radio to his ear and was tuning the stations, pulling occasionally on the aerial. A cat lay quietly on the table. When the kid approached, it flew off and found another place to lie back down. He didn’t make a noise, but he had a definite swagger. He strode around with his hands on his hips, occasionally knocking himself on the head in frustration.
The kid then went to the cupboard and pulled out a leather suitcase. He moved the lamp to the table and started fiddling with a long piece of wire. He had his head cocked, just like me, listening. His shadow reached out across the floor. He went to the kitchen and emerged with a spoonful of oil and carefully poured it into the lock. Then in went the wire again. Before long, the lock pinged open. Instead of looking over at the old man, he looked straight up at me. He seemed nervous. I froze and was going to pull back, but then I thought, if he’s seen me, he’s already seen me. So I continued to watch. He removed a bag tied with a rubber band and in it found a bunch of notes. He licked his fingers and counted. Then he put the stool up against the window. I was still lying on the roof. I waited for him to climb out and disappear into the night.
But instead he climbed back in. He went for the cat and, as if they were intimate friends, he took hold of it, cuddling it in his arms. He then took something from his pocket. Food, I thought. The cat closed its eyes and yawned, as if human in that moment. But it was a rope. The kid tied it around the cat’s neck. Then he tugged, pulling the two ends in opposite directions, strangling it. The cat’s mouth opened, its cries became a thick panting that floated on the air. He pulled the cat up so that it was standing, just to make sure it was really dead. Its back legs reached for the boy’s thighs. It scratched, like a mouse running in mid-air. Its fur was spiky. By the time the boy let go, exhausted, the cat was stiff like wood.
He was dripping with sweat, but he carefully placed the cat on the old man’s knee. He then climbed out and jogged away. I wanted to be sick. The old man was still listening to the radio, stroking his furry companion whenever they said something funny.
I decided I had to leave this city.
When I left my room the next day the kid was there, waiting for me.
‘How did you know where I was staying?’ I stuttered.
‘I followed you the first day we met.’
He smiled and I felt sick, my hairs standing on end. I decided not to collect the deposit but just take my bag and leave. But he grabbed my sleeve.
‘I’ve got no one else to play with.You’re a good guy. No one else pays me any attention.’
I brushed him off, but he pulled harder as tears and laughter fought against each other on his face. I hit him and he let go, wounded.
‘I knew you’d leave.’
The intimacy of his words knocked me dull and I watched him disappear.
As he walked through the gate, I called down to him. He turned and answered. I motioned for him to speak first.
‘Brother, I know who you are.’
‘How much do you want?’
‘I’ve got money. I made a few yuan last night.’
‘Then go and have fun, don’t mind me.’
‘I want to buy you something. Guys like you on TV always wear a tie. I came to ask if you like red.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘I have to give it to you. Don’t go.’
He watched me as he retreated, afraid I’d leave. He then turned and ran. I went back to my room and got my bag. By the time I was on the street, he had gone.
I walked for a bit and hid in the shade of a tree. But real brotherhood wasn’t easy to find these days, so I took out my binoculars to look for him. People walked back and forth, forming a moving barrier. I couldn’t see him. I was about to put the binoculars away when the kid hurried into view with three large policemen. They were waiting at a pedestrian crossing. The kid walked with care, smearing his hands on his dirty army uniform. He look looked up at the policemen and chatted. Shameless.
My hands shook and drops of sweat ran across me like hungry mice. I watched his animated expression as he pointed in my direction and I felt I was sinking into the ground beneath me, while the boy, a god, placed a curse upon my head. One of the policemen was tapping at his cheek with his index finger. He looked over and then started waving. The two other policemen took up the flank and charged straight towards me. Only then, as the reality that I was about to be caught hit me, did I know to put away my binoculars, sling the bag on my back, tighten the straps and run for my life.
My legs thudded against ground. They felt powerless and far too heavy. It was like running on cotton wool, or through deep water. But I kept running. Behind me: ‘Wait! Stop!’ They were flustered. I heard the panting. I was running in the hundred-metre finals at the Olympics: my arms made a scissor motion, my head pecked through the air. People kept stopping to watch. I was the wind against their cheeks.
The police stopped and gasped, ‘Stop or we’ll shoot!’
Go on, then. I was already at one with time and matter, my body running for the sake of running.
I ran at the edge of time itself. Time had to me always felt sticky; the past was the present, the present was the future, yesterday, today and tomorrow were one boundless, mashed-up whole. But now it was an arrow shooting out in front, a point out from which it fired. It was bright, brave, fearless. In the diabolical light of the sun, it pierced through all possible futures, burned up into a black slag heap of the past. I would run, I would crush it. It smelt like a cow condensed into one piece of beef jerky, every bead of sweat suspended in the air collected into one.
A black car crashed and crumpled into pieces like a mirage. It was spluttering like all old cars, old and shabby, as if it could fall apart at any moment and reveal its wounds on the street right there. But it came out of nowhere, came hurtling towards me from a distance. Six seconds. I was forced into a side alley. Interfering busybodies. A swarm of scooters followed me. They smiled covertly at the police, ready to be heroes, but they were pathetic. They forced me to throw coal scuttles, beer bottles, broken chairs and even prams that may or may not have contained children. Every few steps a wooden door was flung open, warm looks of concern, promises of old wardrobes, hidden cubbyholes, secret tunnels, invitations in. But I’d rather die right there on the street.
I trusted no one, not since that dream on the train.
That afternoon, I ran through a labyrinth of alleyways. I remember silence, sunlight through the eaves and spread across walls, my shadow brushing past. It was as surreal as a film. Those scooters (masterpieces of modern machinery) were about to kick their hooves and sink their teeth and claws into my arse.
I stopped suddenly. As if God had spoken to me. I slipped into a dark corner. A motorbike came driving towards me, ridden by a smart-looking cop. He came through the narrow passage as if he was on an open road. A siren followed. I waited for the whirlwind to break on top of me, then rushed forward and pushed. The bike veered towards the wall like a decapitated dragon. Its front wheel chomped through a pile of bricks before coming to a halt. The body of the bike spun one hundred and eighty. The policeman fell like a sack of cement and there he lay by the wall, battered and flattened, until the bike grew bored and spun aside. He sat up, brushed away the dirt and tried to get up. But his eyes rolled back and he slumped. A drop of water fell from the sky and cracked in front of him. He closed his eyes. His chest heaved. People came rushing out.