Limit

  ‘Here, we exist,’ they had answered, smiling. ‘Outside, we are ghosts.’

  It was only later that he realised that the measure of human misery is not in the condition of the housing. Scarce drinking water, overflowing gutters, blocked drains, all these had their place in the annals of hell. But while people were living on the streets, at least they could meet. It was where they sold their wares. It was where they cooked for the labourers who never otherwise had a chance to make a meal. Food preparation alone provided a living for millions of families, and fed them in turn, a livelihood that could only be earned down at street level, just as the street provided social cohesion. People stood by their doorways, deep in conversation. Life at ground level, the openness of houses, all this spread warmth and comfort. Nobody dropped in to buy something on the tenth floor of a high-rise, and if you stepped outside the door, all you could see was a wall. The road took him to a hill. From up here, he could see in every direction, as much as he could see anything through the dirty brown blanket of smog. The COD was air-conditioned, but Jericho thought he could feel the sun on his skin. All around him was a sight he had grown used to by now. Shacks, high-rise blocks, all more or less shabby, poles standing drunkenly festooned with dangling power cables, rubble, dirt.

  Should he go on?

  Baffled, he told his phone to take bearings. It projected him right in the middle of no man’s land. Off the maps. It was only when he zoomed out that it deigned to show him a couple of main roads that ran through Quyu, if the data was still up-to-date.

  Was Yoyo really hiding in this desolation?

  He entered the coordinates from where the blog post had been uploaded to Brilliant Shit. The computer showed him a spot not far from Demon Point, near the freeway.

  Back the other way.

  Swearing, he turned round, narrowly avoided a barrow which several kids were pushing across the road, garnered a few choice insults and then drove off fast, back where he had come from. He passed by on his left the area he had driven through at first, got lost in a tangle of streets, blundered through a garment district, spotted a through road between street stalls heaped with clothes and found himself on a wide street with walls each side and remarkably neat-looking houses behind them. It was seething with people and with vehicles of all kinds. The scene was dominated by food stalls, fast food chains, shops and booths. He passed several branches of Cyber Planet. The whole thing looked like a down-at-heel version of London’s legendary Camden Town when there had still been a subculture there to speak of, thirty years ago now. Prostitutes leaned in doorways. Groups of men who were definitely not in the peace-and-love business sat around in front of cafés and wok kitchens, or walked about with appraising eyes. Jericho’s COD was given many thoughtful looks.

  According to the computer his destination was very close, but it seemed there was a curse on him. He kept taking wrong turns. Every attempt to get back to the main road led him deeper into this off-kilter world that was obviously ruled by the triads; this must be where the slumlords lived, the lords of decay. Twice groups of men stopped him and tried to drag him from the car, for whatever reason. At last he found a shortcut, and the quarter was suddenly behind him. The blocky silhouette of a steelworks showed in the distance. He drove over a bulldozed stretch to a gigantic rust-brown complex with chimneys. A group of bikers overtook him, went past and vanished on the other side of the walls. Jericho followed them. The road led to a large open yard, obviously some kind of gathering place. There were bikes parked everywhere, young people sitting together smoking and drinking. Music boomed across the factory yard. Pubs and clubs, brothels and sex-shops had been set up in empty workshops. The inevitable Cyber Planet took up one whole side of the yard, surrounded by stalls offering handmade appliqués. Another shop was flogging second-hand musical instruments. A two-storey brick building stood across from the Cyber Planet. A van was parked in front of the open doors, and martial-looking figures were carrying gear and electronics inside.

  Jericho couldn’t believe his eyes.

  A huge letter A, twice as tall as a man, leapt out at him from above the doors. Underneath, in large letters, a single word:

  ANDROMEDA

  Tyres squealing, he stopped in front of the van, jumped out and walked back a few paces. All at once he realised what the ragged ring that replaced the crossbar on the A was supposed to be. Diane had done her best with the image that she had, but the whole picture only made sense in the original. The ring was a picture of a galaxy, and Andromeda, or rather the Andromeda nebula, was a spiral galaxy in the Andromeda constellation.

  Hi all. Back in our galaxy now, have been for a few days.

  Yoyo was here!

  Or maybe not. Not any more. Daxiong had sent him on a wild goose chase so as to give her time to disappear. He swore, and squinted up at the sun. The smog smeared its light into a flat film that hurt his eyes. In a foul mood he locked the COD and entered the twilit world of Andromeda. There was this at least: Chen Hongbing had been afraid that his daughter might be sitting in a police cell somewhere with no official charges. Jericho could disabuse him of that worry. On the other hand, Chen hadn’t even hired him for this job, at least not in so many words. He could go home. His job was done.

  At least, everything seemed to say that he had found Yoyo’s trail.

  And then lost it again.

  Irritating, that.

  He looked around. A spacious foyer. Later in the evening, this would be where they sold tickets, drinks, cigarettes. The wall across from the cash till was hidden by a flurry of posters, flyers, newsletters and a pinboard bristling with announcements. Obviously some kind of subculture clearing house. Jericho went closer. It was mostly requests for work or for rideshares, for rooms, instruments and software. Second-hand goods of all sorts were offered for sale, some doubtless stolen, and sexual partners for hire – for a night, for longer, for particular tastes. Sometimes the offers matched what other notices sought. Most of the sheets of paper were handwritten, an uncommon sight. He went into the actual concert venue, a bare hall with high windows giving onto the courtyard. Most of the windowpanes were boarded or painted over, so that little light filtered through despite the harsh sun outside. Here and there a sheet of cardboard stood in for missing glass. The far end of the hall was taken up by a stage that could easily have accommodated two full orchestras. Speaker boxes were piled up each side. Two men on ladders were adjusting spotlights, others carried crates of kit past him. A steel stair ran up to a balcony along the long side wall across from the windows.

  Jericho thought of Chen Hongbing and the suffering in his eyes.

  He owed Tu more than just conjecture.

  Two men pushed past him with a huge trunk on wheels. One of them lifted the lid and took mic stands from inside, handing them up to the stage. The other went back towards the foyer, paused, turned his head and stared at Jericho.

  ‘Can I help?’ he asked in a tone of voice that suggested he should shove off.

  ‘Who’s playing tonight?’

  ‘The Pink Asses.’

  ‘The Andromeda was recommended to me,’ Jericho said. ‘Apparently you have some of the best concerts in Shanghai.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘I don’t know the Pink Asses. Worth my time?’

  The man looked at him derisively. He was well-built, handsome, with regular, almost androgynous features and shoulder-length hair. The orange T-shirt above his shiny leather trousers clung to him like a second skin; it could have come from a spray-can. He wasn’t wearing the usual appliqués found in this subculture, or any other jewellery.

  ‘Depends what you like.’

  ‘Anything that’s good.’

  ‘Mando-prog?’

  ‘For instance.’

  ‘You’re in the wrong place then.’ The man grinned. ‘The music sounds just like the band’s name.’

  ‘It sounds like pink backsides?’

  ‘It sounds like arseholes fucked bloody, you simp. Both genders. A
ss Metal, never heard of it? You still want to come?’

  Jericho smiled. ‘We’ll see.’

  The other man rolled his eyes and went outside.

  Jericho felt stymied for a moment. Should he perhaps have asked the guy about Yoyo? It was easy to be paranoid in a place like this. Everybody here seemed part of a shadow army whose mission was to stop folks like him asking anything about Yoyo.

  ‘Rubbish,’ he muttered. ‘She’s a dissident, not the Queen of Quyu.’

  Tu had spoken of six activists. Six, not sixty. Yoyo’s blog post had suggested that all six were members of the City Demons. Further, she had to have helping hands here in the Andromeda. It was quite certain that most people here had no idea who Yoyo was nor that she was hiding somewhere in the complex. The real problem was that the locals in a place like Quyu refused on principle to answer questions.

  As he watched them putting down cables and lugging instruments up to the stage, he considered his options. Daxiong had warned Yoyo that someone was interested in the Andromeda. He must believe that Jericho was still wandering around in the Quyu hinterland with no clue where he was, out of circulation for the next few hours. Yoyo would think the same.

  Time was still on his side.

  He glanced all about. The stage was covered over by a kind of alcove, where two windows which used to look out over the factory floor were bricked up. Work went on around him. Nobody was paying him any attention. Unhurried, he climbed the metal steps and went along the balcony. It ended in a door, painted grey. He turned the handle. He had been expecting to find it locked, but it swung silently inwards and showed him a twilit hallway. He slipped in, went through a doorway to the right and found himself in a neon-lit room with a single window that overlooked the yard.

  He was right over the stage.

  Even though it was cold, barely furnished and unwelcoming, there was something indefinably lived-in about the room, typical of a place vacated just moments before. An energy that lingered on, unconscious memories stored in the molecules, objects that had been moved, recently breathed air. He went to a table with chairs around it, formica seats on rusty legs, under the table a half-full waste-paper basket. A few open shelves, mattresses on the floor, only one of them in use to judge by the tangled sheets and the pillow. Laptops on the shelves, a printer, stacks of paper, some of it printed. More stacks of comics, magazines, books. The centrepiece was a prehistoric stereo with radio and record player. There were vinyl records ranged along the wall, by the look of them survivors from the time when CDs were still rare. Right now of course CDs were a dying species as well. But you could buy records again, in today’s download era, new records from new bands.

  A few of them really were old, though, as Jericho found out when he squatted down to look. He flicked through the sleeves and read the names on the covers. There were examples of Chinese pop and avant-garde, such as Top Floor Circus, Shen Yin Sui Pian, SondTOY and Dead J, but also albums by Genesis, Van der Graaf Generator, King Crimson, Magma and Jethro Tull. There was scarcely a gap in the collection from the sixties and seventies, the era when prog rock was invented. In the eighties it had been fighting a losing battle against punk and New Wave, in the nineties it was on its last legs, in the first decade of the new millennium it seemed to be dead, and the genre owed its revival not to Europeans but to Chinese DJs who had begun to mix it in with dance beats around 2020. This glittering new mixture of concert rock, dance floor and Beijing Opera had been enjoying a boom ever since, with new bands sprouting daily. Popular artists such as Zhong Tong Xi, third-party, IN3 and B6 made whole new worlds of sound from the complex concept albums of the prog era, and the local superstars Mu Ma and Zuo Xiao Zu Zhou organised all-star projects with grand old men of rock such as Peter Hammill, Robert Fripp, Ian Anderson and Christian Vander, filling clubs and concert arenas.

  Yoyo’s music.

  An omnipresent hum tickled at Jericho’s eardrums. He looked up, spotted a fridge at the back of the room, went over and looked in. It was half full of groceries, mostly untouched fast food. Bottles, full or half full, water, juice, beer, a bottle of Chinese whisky. He breathed in the cold air. The fridge made a clicking sound. A breath of air stroked the back of his neck.

  Jericho froze.

  That click hadn’t been from the fridge.

  The next moment he was flying through the air, to land on one of the mattresses with a dull thud. The impact drove all the air from his lungs. Fast as lightning, he rolled to one side and raised his knees. His attacker lunged for him. Jericho slammed his feet at him. The man leapt back, grabbed an ankle and twisted him about so that he ended up on his stomach. He tried to get up, felt the other man jump on him and drove an elbow backwards in the blind hope of hitting him somewhere it would hurt.

  ‘Take it easy,’ said a voice that seemed familiar. ‘Or this mattress will be the last thing you see in your life.’

  Jericho wriggled. The other man pushed his face deep into the musty fabric. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Panic galvanised him. He flailed wildly around, kicked his legs, but the man pressed him mercilessly down into the mattress.

  ‘Do we understand one another?’

  ‘Mmmm,’ said Jericho.

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘MMMMMM!’

  His tormentor took his hand from the back of his head. The next moment, the weight was gone from his shoulders. Gasping for breath, Jericho rolled onto his back. The good-looking type he had spoken to earlier was leaning above him, and gave him a knife-blade smile.

  ‘This isn’t where the Pink Asses are playing, simp.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise them to.’

  ‘What are you looking for up here?’

  Well, at least they were on speaking terms now. Jericho sat up and pointed at the shabby furniture.

  ‘You know, I’m a lover of luxury. I was thinking of spending my holidays—’

  ‘Careful, my friend. I don’t want to hear anything that might make me angry.’

  ‘Can I show you something?’

  ‘Give it a try.’

  ‘It’s on my computer.’ Jericho paused. ‘That’s to say, I’ll have to reach into my jacket, and I’m going to produce a device. I don’t want you thinking it’s a weapon and doing something hasty.’

  The man stared at him. Then he grinned.

  ‘Whatever I do, I can assure you I’ll have the time of my life doing it.’

  Jericho called up Yoyo’s image and projected it onto the wall opposite.

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘What do you want with her?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when you’ve answered my question.’

  ‘You’ve got some nerve, little man.’

  ‘My name’s Jericho,’ Jericho said patiently. ‘Owen Jericho, private detective. I’m five foot eleven, so don’t call me that. And drop the mind games, I can’t concentrate when someone’s trying to kill me. So, do you know the girl or not?’

  The man hesitated.

  ‘What do you want from Yoyo?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jericho switched off the projection. ‘Yoyo’s father, Chen Hongbing, has hired me. He’s worried. Truth to tell, he’s worried sick.’

  ‘And what makes you think his daughter might be here?’

  ‘Among other things, your friendly and forthcoming manner. Incidentally, who do I have the pleasure of addressing?’

  ‘I ask the questions, friend.’

  ‘All right.’ Jericho raised his hands. ‘Here’s a suggestion. I tell the truth, and you stop the hackneyed dialogue. Can we agree on that?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Your name’s Hmm?’

  ‘My name’s Bide. Zhao Bide.’

  ‘Thank you. Yoyo’s living here, right?’

  ‘It would be a bit much to call it living.’

  ‘So I see. Look, Chen Hongbing is worried. Yoyo hasn’t been in touch for days, she didn’t turn up for their meeting, he’s a bundle of nerves. My job is to find her.’

  ‘And
do what?’

  ‘And do nothing.’ Jericho shrugged. ‘Well, I’ll tell her she really should call her father. Do you work here?’

  ‘In a very loose sense.’

  ‘Are you one of the City Demons?’

  ‘One of—’ Something like annoyance flickered in Zhao’s eyes. ‘No, what makes you think so?’

  ‘It would make sense, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Do I look like one?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘That’s right. You’re clueless.’

  ‘Right now I think that Yoyo’s closest friends are the City Demons.’

  Zhao looked at him mistrustfully.

  ‘Check my story,’ Jericho added. ‘You’ll find all you need to know about me on the internet. I don’t mean Yoyo any harm. I’m not from the police, I’m not Secret Service, I’m nobody she needs to be afraid of.’

  Zhao scratched behind his ear. He seemed at a loss. Then he grabbed Jericho by the upper arm and propelled him towards the door.

  ‘Let’s go and drink something, little Jericho. If I find out that you’ve been lying to me, I’ll bury you here in Quyu. Alive, just so you know.’

  * * *

  They sat at a café in the sun across from the venue. Zhao ordered, and a girl with so many appliqués stuck onto her shaven scalp that she could have been mistaken for a cyborg brought two bottles of ice-cold beer.

  They drank. For a moment, glorious silence reigned.

  ‘It won’t be easy to find Yoyo,’ Zhao said eventually. He took a long swig at his bottle and belched loudly. ‘It’s not just her father who’s lost sight of her. So have we.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Us. Yoyo’s friends.’ Zhao looked at him. ‘What do you know about the girl? How much did they tell you?’

  ‘I know that she’s on the run.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Jericho raised his eyebrows. ‘Wondering if you can trust me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And I don’t know if I can trust you, Zhao. I only know that this isn’t getting us anywhere.’