‘Xièxiè,’ said Zhen, climbing out of the truck’s cab on to the darkened highway. As their guide was thanking the driver, Connor and Amir slipped quietly out from beneath the tarpaulin of the open flatbed and crept into the bushes at the side of the road. With a rumble and cough of diesel fumes, the old truck pulled away and disappeared into the night.
Zhen waited until the road was clear, then, peering into the gloom, hissed, ‘Connor? Amir?’
The two of them emerged from the bushes like skittish round-eyed gophers. Amir had his arms clasped around himself, chilled to the bone by the long drive out of Shanghai. Connor rolled his shoulders and stretched out his back, his muscles stiff and sore from his cramped position hiding among the bags of cement and other building supplies the truck had been transporting.
‘Did the driver suspect anything?’ asked Connor, dusting down his clothes and Go-bag.
Zhen shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He talked about the terrorist attack the whole way, but didn’t link me with it.’
A pair of headlights appeared in the distance, their super-bright halogen beams growing fast.
‘We need to get off the road,’ said Amir fretfully.
Following their guide, they clambered down the embankment into a farmer’s paddy field. The car shot past without slowing, plunging them back into darkness. More feeling than seeing their way, they headed across the field. The ground underfoot was waterlogged, the rice crop yet to be harvested, so Zhen kept to a narrow dirt ridge that ran between the tall stems of grasses. Connor crouched low and, being careful not to slip, trod softly in his guide’s footsteps. Although the paddy field looked to be deserted, a huddle of low buildings nestled in the near distance and Connor was wary of any guard dogs that might alert their owners.
All of a sudden there was a splash and a sharply muttered curse from Amir. This was followed by loud squawking and a furious flapping of wings. Connor instinctively ducked, shielding his face as a pair of startled birds flew overhead.
‘Bloody ducks!’ complained Amir, shaking the mud off his sodden shoe.
‘Stay low,’ Connor hissed, his eyes watching the nearby buildings for movement. The birds’ racket must surely have caught somebody’s attention.
Zhen hunkered down beside him. ‘Eco-friendly farming,’ he whispered to Amir. ‘Instead of pesticides, farmers use ducks to eat the insects and weeds.’
‘Well, I wish they’d build their nests somewhere else!’ grumbled Amir.
‘Shh!’ warned Connor, peering into the darkness. Now the ducks had settled, the night was still and hushed once again. He waited a full minute just to be sure. Then he waved to Zhen to move on.
Moonlight glinted on the muddy waters as their silhouettes swiftly and silently flitted across the field. Reaching the far side, they came to a single-track road that led to the outskirts of an old town. The buildings here were a mishmash of squat single- and two-storey whitewashed blocks, their peaked roofs a ripple of clay tiles, each merging into the next like a sea of grey dappled waves. The streets were narrow and cobbled, illuminated by red oval-shaped lanterns hanging from doorways, their warm soft light welcoming and just enough to see by. There were few if any people around, a stark contrast to the hectic bustle of the city. In fact, the flash modernity of Shanghai seemed to have bypassed this quiet corner of China completely. As the three of them wended their way through the back alleys, concealing themselves in the shadows, they crossed over a number of ancient stone bridges, each spanning a network of canals. There were no roads to speak of, in fact no cars at all – only narrow paddle boats. It was as if they’d stepped back in time.
‘Where are we?’ Connor whispered as they scurried over yet another bridge.
‘Zhouzhuang,’ Zhen replied quietly. ‘It’s a water town, a hundred kilometres west of Shanghai.’
Heading down the lane opposite, their guide stopped beside a small unassuming house backing on to a canal. Its windows were shuttered and no lanterns lit. Above its modest entrance a dragon had been etched into the brickwork. Zhen rapped on the door.
Getting no answer, he knocked again, more urgently.
After what seemed an age, the door opened a crack and an old woman’s wrinkled face peeked through.
‘Lăolao,’ said Zhen, smiling warmly.
The old woman frowned, her wrinkles deepening into grooves across her weathered face. Then a spark of recognition twinkled in her eyes. ‘Zhen?’
Their guide nodded and the old woman, short and shrivelled as a dried fruit, opened the door. But she stopped as soon as she spotted his two companions in the shadows. Her sharp eyes were quick to judge Connor’s cement-encrusted hair, Western looks and surprisingly tall stature. She glanced in undisguised distaste at Amir too, noting with a downward curl of her lips his muddy waterlogged shoes.
Zhen spoke rapidly in Chinese. The old woman didn’t take her eyes off the two of them as she listened, her expression inscrutable. She gave no response to Zhen’s pleas and appeared to be as unyielding as a rock.
Connor began to feel uneasy standing so exposed in the street. Someone could come along at any moment. The woman was evidently not going to let them in. And at worst she might raise the alarm, even inform the authorities. A million-yuan reward was not to be taken lightly.
Then the old woman held up a gnarled hand, silencing Zhen, and begrudgingly beckoned them all inside. They stepped into a small courtyard, cluttered with pots that brimmed with herbs and flowers. From the weak glow of a light bulb hung above the door, Connor could see the central area had been kept clear and recently swept. The house itself was a humble single-storey affair, its plaster walls flaking paint and its windows crooked yet spotlessly clean. A simple kitchen unit with a concrete sink was housed outside beneath a plastic corrugated roof. Laundry hung from a washing line and a wooden chair was propped against a wall beside a small foldaway table. In one corner stood a tall wooden stand with long pegs sticking out at different angles – to Connor it looked like a muk yan jong, a wooden training dummy used in martial arts, but here its sole purpose seemed to be as a coat rack.
Once the door closed behind them, the old woman turned her scathing, critical glare upon Zhen. In a brusque and sharp tongue, she rebuked the boy, wagging her bony finger angrily. Connor didn’t need to understand Chinese to know that Zhen was in deep trouble and being subjected to a severe dressing-down. The old woman was as fierce as the dragon engraved above her door.
After a three-minute tirade, she dismissed Zhen into the house with a flick of her wrist. Red-faced and scolded into silence, their guide scurried through an open door and disappeared. The old woman shot a sideways glance at Connor and Amir, narrowing her eyes, daring them to move. But Connor doubted they could, even if they wanted to, in the face of such a ferocious adversary.
The old woman stalked past to the little kitchen. Lighting a single-ring gas stove, she picked up a large cooking pot that looked far too heavy for her slight frame and rested it on top. Removing the lid, she gave whatever was inside a stir, then adjusted the stove’s heat. As the food was cooking, she stood with her arms crossed, watching Connor and Amir like a cantankerous vulture.
‘We should go,’ said Amir out of the corner of his mouth. ‘The woman’s obviously angry. And raving mad!’
‘I agree,’ said Connor. ‘Zhen’s in enough hot water without us adding to it.’
‘She’s not angry with you. She’s angry with me.’
Connor and Amir turned to Zhen –
But it wasn’t their guide who emerged back into the courtyard. Instead a slender young girl with a cascade of black hair appeared.
‘Zhen?’ asked Connor, questioning his eyesight. Gone were the shapeless T-shirt and baseball cap that had hidden her long hair; now their guide wore a traditional qipao dress, the close-fitting robe – with its high neck, split skirt and short sleeves – patterned with pink lotus flowers.
The girl nodded, spread her arms and offered them a tentative smile. ‘Shanghai Surprise!’