“This is all just superstition,” Zhang said. “People out in the sticks might believe it, but not here, in Shanghai.”
But the word his friend had used—enhanced—had triggered something. He thought of the way Naemi had moved towards him when she found him outside the museum, and the speed with which she had reached the lifts when she left the Chairman Suite after their first night together.
“The blood you mentioned,” Mad Dog said. “Was it yours?”
“Of course not,” Zhang said. “You think I wouldn’t have noticed?”
“Whose was it, then?”
“I told you. She had a nosebleed.”
“And you believed her?”
“Not exactly.” Zhang hesitated again. “I felt she was lying, but I couldn’t work out what the truth might be. I still can’t.”
Mad Dog took a Shanghai Gold from the packet on the table and rolled it pensively between his fingers. It was the first time Zhang had admitted that something might be wrong.
“Why did you feel she was lying?” Mad Dog asked.
“It was the position she was in when I appeared in the doorway. It was as if I had caught her doing something secret—or something intensely private.” Zhang paused, thinking back. “What she was saying made perfect sense, but everything I was looking at seemed to contradict it. She wasn’t behaving like someone with a nosebleed. There was a strange atmosphere in the room—”
Qi Jing reached across the table and touched his arm. “We’re thinking of going somewhere else. Somewhere a little less—”
“I know,” Zhang said. “This is a pretty awful place.”
“You don’t mind? We’ve hardly spoken.”
“We’ll catch up later. I’ll call you.” She stood up and came round the table and spoke into his ear. “I like your friend.”
Zhang smiled.
When Qi Jing and Laser had left, Zhang bought Mad Dog another whiskey and a beer. Mad Dog swallowed the whiskey and put the glass down carefully, as if he was making a move in a game of chess.
“Do your feet hurt?” he asked.
Zhang stared at him.
“Blood-drinking ghosts,” Mad Dog said. “They draw your blood out through the soles of your feet. Usually at night, while you’re asleep.”
“My feet are fine.”
“No sensitivity? No puncture holes?”
Zhang shook his head.
Mad Dog drank some beer, then he began again.
“This is what I know. When a ghost drinks someone’s blood, he not only kills that person. He steals that person’s identity. He becomes that person. He literally takes the shape of the person he has killed.”
Zhang thought back to the breakfast at the Park Hyatt, and Gulsvig’s face when he saw the young woman he had been in love with half a century before. It was a physical impossibility, of course—unless…
“You’re not listening,” Mad Dog said.
“Sorry. What did you say?”
“You can’t judge by appearances.” Eyes lowered, Mad Dog was turning his whiskey glass on the table, turning and turning it, his gray hair falling forwards, across his face. “On the outside, the ghost is the person he has killed. On the inside, he’s a ghost. He’s actually dead twice over. A blood-drinking ghost is a murderer—by definition. At least, that’s how it works in China.”
Zhang thought about mentioning Gulsvig, but he was worried the story would only prove Mad Dog’s theory. There was even a part of Zhang that wished he hadn’t talked about the blood. Why? Because he wanted Naemi to be who she claimed to be. Because he couldn’t contemplate the alternative. Because he loved her. That was what he realized in that moment, even though Mad Dog would tell him he wasn’t thinking straight. You can’t love a woman like that, Mad Dog would say. You can’t love a ghost.
Zhang finished his beer. “I need to go.”
“I’ll come with you.” Mad Dog stood up, swaying a little as he buttoned his suit jacket. “Is your car here?”
“Not tonight.”
Outside the bar, they stood on the pavement, Mad Dog looking to the east, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Walk with me,” he said.
Zhang wondered how many drinks Mad Dog had had. Six, at least. Maybe more.
They set off in the direction of Suzhou Creek. The warm wind had died down. They passed a small group of men on a street corner, sitting on upended crates and boxes, playing cards for money. A fruit shop was still open. A man in a T-shirt that said GRENADE dozed on a green plastic lounger by the entrance. Once, Mad Dog tripped on a tree root, but Zhang caught him before he fell. The smell he gave off was stale and bitter, like old bok choy.
“Are you angry with me?” Mad Dog asked.
“No,” Zhang said. “I’m not angry.”
“Blood-drinking ghosts aren’t usually female. That’s very rare. Unheard of, really.” He stopped and turned to Zhang, a strained look on his face. “If what I suspect is true, then you’re in danger.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you.”
“Do you still have the mirror I gave you,” Mad Dog said, “and the little piece of peach wood?”
Zhang nodded.
They crossed Suzhou Creek. From the middle of the bridge, Zhang could just make out the Embankment Building, dark brown and bulky, almost brooding. Naemi would not be home tonight. She would be on her way to London—or perhaps she was already there…
They passed the New Asia Hotel, then turned right, onto Tanggu Road. It was darker suddenly, and there were fewer shops. After walking for another five minutes, Zhang noticed a paved area overhung with huge dark trees. A silver ghetto blaster stood on the ground, playing a waltz, and three or four young couples in T-shirts and jeans were dancing formally nearby. Mad Dog stopped to light a cigarette.
“All right,” Zhang said. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that she’s a ghost. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Mad Dog remained quite still—except for the hand holding the cigarette, which trembled slightly. “She could feed off you. Take you over.”
“What would you do, if you were me?”
Mad Dog’s eyes were on the dancers. “I’d have nothing to do with her. I’d cut off all contact.” He paused. “I’d run a mile.”
“It’s not so easy.”