Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 84

“They only stopped when the neighbour boy was killed.” Here eyes are like glowing dishes of water. “Is it worth it to
risk your life for a bit of fun?”
Boots inspects his chopsticks. I think about his auntie as I explore a drop of soy sauce on the plastic dishcloth. It must be
hard for her, with so much changing. Kids don’t respect her the way she respected her parents; the air is thick and
nauseating all of a sudden; her hometown is vulnerable to a plague of monstrous steel weeds. Even now, Xin Tower
glints eerily through the window.
“Yes. Life is only worthwhile when you live it.” Boots is sat up straight, a wisp of emotion winding around his words.
“And anyways, it’s not like we’re careless. There’s never been a fall in Shanghai that I know of.”
“It’s not falling I’m concerned with.” Auntie is standing up, leaning over the table. She speaks ur- gently, matching
widened eyes with her nephew. “If you push too far, they will push back. And you have much farther to fall.”
—
Even through the haze of smoke, I saw cart upon cart of opium disappearing into the slums that thronged next to the
gate. I gazed hatefully at the maws of colonial buildings that gaped from beyond the wall.
Despite being at the threshold of my greatest fear, I felt strangely calm. Suddenly, I shook my head clear. Was that
awful venom drifting through the curtain taking hold of me? Fac ed with such a horrifying thought, I resolved to get this
over with as soon as possible. I ducked out of the foyer, took a deep breath of the churning street air, and dove in.
A cloying, warm smell infected the entire parlour, working its way into my clothes and nostrils. Everywhere, wisps of
smoke prowled from pipes held limply in the mouths of the customers. Their faces were gaunt and tired, and not a
breath could be heard.
No matter how many times I came here, the sight of their empty, lifeless bodies shook me to my core. I staggered on, at
one point knocking an addict to his feet in my rush. He simply lay there, mewing softly, before half-crawling to a
cushion where his pipe lay beckoningly, like a smouldering snake.
I had reached the depths of hell. Now, to retrieve a lost soul.
—
Ahead, Xin Tower rears up like a demonic, gargantuan spike driven up from the core of the earth. Cables and floodlights
dangle and spin from all angles. At its foot, the walls of the neighbouring houses look bent in- wards by its swollen
frame. Within the windowless floors, flashlights roam across batons and boots that pace relentlessly.
Once again, blood rushes around my body. Real danger awaits. We look at each other. “Ready?” “Ready.”
Climbing takes us into the earliest hours of the day. Guards stud every floor and surface, poring over the best climbing
routes with heavy torches.
I get the feeling that Xin Tower knows we’re here, somewhere, and it’s only a matter of time before it finds us and
tosses us out.
—
I was beginning to get frantic. I had gone up and down the whole wretched place without finding my brother, and I felt
the smoke filling my lungs by the second. I was close to tears when suddenly, I spotted it. An emp- ty cushion with a
pipe, still smoking, beside it. A tray with a long bill and a handful of coins scattered on the floor.
My brother’s coat.
The back door thrown ajar, still swinging in the freezing midnight air.
A grinning crescent of blood, pulsing red on red carpet.
“Oh, no.”
—
We’re three quarters of the way up on some scaffolding.
Beyond a metre of yawning nothingness, a guard is staring right at us. My limbs jolt against each other,