“No. Probably not.” Mad Dog glanced at Zhang and saw that he was smiling. “What’s so funny?”
“The idea of you running.”
A taxi’s green light appeared up ahead, and Zhang held out an arm. As the taxi slowed and stopped, he asked Mad Dog if he would like a lift. Mad Dog pressed his lips together in a straight line and shook his head, as if Zhang had suggested they indulge in some unbelievable and slightly disgusting luxury.
“I’ll walk,” he said. “The night air will do me good.”
“You’re not too drunk?”
Mad Dog dropped his cigarette in the gutter, then moved off along the pavement, heading north, his right hand lifted in the air above his shoulder. Beyond him, the young couples danced beneath the overhanging trees.
* * *
—
Once in the taxi, Zhang checked his messages. He found a text from Qi Jing: Your drummer’s cute. He nodded to himself. It seemed his ruse had worked. But there was nothing from Naemi. On a whim—and despite all Mad Dog’s warnings—he rang the number Johnny Yu had given him, only half expecting it to work. She didn’t answer. Five minutes later, he tried again, and there she was suddenly, so clear that she could have been sitting right beside him.
“Hello?”
“It’s Zhang,” he said. “Where are you?”
“I’m in London. On my way to an appointment.”
“You sound so close.”
“I wish.” She laughed quickly. “How did you get my number?”
“I asked you the same thing once. You didn’t answer.”
There was a silence on the other end.
“Are you all right?” she said after a while. “Your voice is a bit peculiar.”
Zhang looked through the window of the taxi. A man with no right arm stood outside a pet shop, smoking.
“I’m tired, that’s all.” He paused. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel real, what’s happening between us.”
“How do you mean?”
“There’s something I can’t get hold of, even if we’re in the same room. Even if we’re in bed together.”
“Is it because I’m not what you’re used to?”
“I don’t think it’s that.”
“What, then?”
“It’s difficult. Mad Dog thinks—” Zhang bit his lip. He had been trying not to mention Mad Dog, but he’d had too many drinks, and it had just slipped out.
“What does Mad Dog think?” Her voice was light and curious, though he thought he could detect a hardness underneath, as if she was upset but pretending not to be.
“Nothing,” he said. “I told you before. He has some pretty far-fetched ideas.”
She fell silent again. In the background, he thought he heard a car go by. He checked his watch. In London, it would be rush hour.
“Naemi? Are you still there?”
“He drinks a lot,” she said, “doesn’t he.”
Zhang nodded. “Yes.”
“He should be careful.” She seemed to be on the point of saying something else, but checked herself. “Listen, I’m about to go underground. I’m probably going to—”
Her voice cut out. He had lost her.
Taking his phone from his ear, he held it in his hand and stared straight ahead. The mouth of the Xinjian Road Tunnel filled the taxi’s windscreen. He, too, was about to go underground.
THAT AFTERNOON, dressed in dark, nondescript clothing and wearing a black beanie over her hair, Naemi had followed Zhang to a recording studio in an alley off Beijing East Road. Four hours later, she had followed him and his two musician friends to a nearby bar. As she watched the entrance from a position she had taken up on the far side of the street, she was surprised to see Zhang’s sister, Qi Jing, appear. She left before they did—with Laser, the drummer. It was almost midnight by the time Zhang and Mad Dog emerged. This was the moment she had been waiting for. But she had another surprise in store. The two men didn’t separate, as she had expected. Instead, they moved off in the direction of Suzhou Creek. Once again, she followed, but this time she was frowning. Was Zhang going to walk Mad Dog home? She hoped not.
After an hour, the two men came to a halt. Ducking into an unlit doorway, she watched as they stood at a junction, talking. She was too far away to hear what was being said. Instead, the measured, jaunty notes of a waltz floated through the air to her. There were young people dancing in formal couples beneath the trees. It was oddly stately, quaint too, like a scene from another era. Turning her attention back to the two men, she saw Zhang raise an arm. A taxi pulled up beside him. Would they both get in? She held her breath. They exchanged a few more words, then Mad Dog walked away, leaving Zhang to climb into the taxi by himself.
“At last,” she murmured.
She waited until the taxi turned the corner, then she followed Mad Dog down a wide road that led over a canal. She passed a man selling barbecued meat on bamboo skewers, and for a split second she was back near the beginning of her life, crouching behind a wooden panel in the dark…Just then, she felt her phone vibrate inside her pocket. She looked at the screen. Zhang was calling—from the taxi, presumably. But how had he got hold of her number? She certainly hadn’t given it to him. She stared at his name, then pressed Decline. Putting her phone away, she looked up. Mad Dog had disappeared.
In a panic, she began to hurry along the pavement. The streetlamps gave off a dim brownish-yellow light, and there were long intervals between them. Could he be home already? She prayed this wasn’t so. She passed an estate agent, which was still open. Who bought property at one in the morning? Even after a decade in the city, there were things that mystified her. Up ahead was a dingy restaurant. She slowed as she approached. Inside, Mad Dog was sitting on a chair upholstered in purple fabric with a large bottle of beer in front of him. He was the only customer.
Stepping back from the window, Naemi crossed the road and sat down on a bench. She would wait for Mad Dog to finish his beer. She didn’t think it would take too long. While she was waiting, her phone began to vibrate. It was Zhang again. This time she decided to answer, reminding herself, before she did, that she was in London, and that London was eight hours behind Shanghai.
* * *
—
If Naemi ended the call abruptly, it was because she had glimpsed a movement in the corner of her eye. Mad Dog had lurched to his feet. As he paid for his beer, tossing a few coins onto the table, she eased off the bench and hid behind a parked car. Mad Dog came to a standstill outside the restaurant, by the door. He was feeling for something in his pocket. Why had she answered the second time Zhang called? She supposed that she couldn’t resist the chance to hear his voice. She had been missing him. But what if he had recognized the sound of Shanghai in the background? What if it occurred to him that she might not be in London at all—that the work trip she had mentioned was a fabrication? She shook her head. She had taken such a risk. Still, it seemed she might have got away with it. In the meantime, Mad Dog was having trouble guiding the flame of the lighter towards the end of his cigarette. Finally, he managed it. Inhaling deeply, he muttered something to himself and moved off along the pavement. She waited a few moments, then crossed the street.