Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 2

A Shanghai Tale British International School, Shanghai, Puxi (BISS Puxi), Haefliger, Henry - 13 A tall, frail figure emerged carefully from the shadows. Dark. That was all he could be described as. He wore all black clothes under which, not even his face was visible. He was completely wreathed in shadows as if he himself was a human impersonation of the shadow he had stepped out of. The only thing not dark about him was his hand, just peeping out of his jacket. As wraith-like as he was, that hand stood out completely in contrast to the rest of him. The hand was completely pale, ghost-like, the veins bulged like a blue spider web against the transparent skin of his hand. He was a ghost cloaked in shadows. He was nobody. Nobody. That was his name, his identity, his being. He had no known family or friends, in fact he was not known at all. None, not one of the 450 million people in China in 1845 would have recognized him. Even if they had seen him without his outfit. That’s what made him so perfect for his job; he had no acquaintances, no personality, not even a nationality; he had no being. “Splash. Splash. Splash.” His boots spluttered through the fresh puddles from a night’s rain. He blinked. He felt the hand leave his shoulder as he stumbled forward into the street. He could smell the thick, dizzying opium fumes drifting out from within the large red wood and brick house that he had just left. The envelope remained tightly clutched against his frail chest as if he was protectively carrying a baby through a horde of people. He was now winding his way through the thin alleyways and back streets of shanghai. The houses around him were all built out of the same material: dull, red brick. Every house in the area was made of it. It was as if every one of them had been built to make it as hard as possible to remember them specifically. The same black tiles covering their outwards curving rooves, the rough uneven bricks, even the reinforced hardwood doors, they were all the same, there was no way to define a house by a unique feature it possessed as those did not exist here, only dull, orderly similarity. He knew that most of the households around him were caught up in the illegal opium trade; this was a poor area and everyone had to support their families somehow, but he was buried deep in it. He knew, if he was caught smuggling money for the illegal trade gang he was tied to he would most certainly be killed. But he had to, for his wife, for their soon to be child. So he continued walking, the money tucked into his torn jacket. He blinked. The thick, musky opium smoke lingered all around the brown brick chimneys of the worn out looking houses surrounding him. He knew all too well that these places existed only to satisfy the addictions of the creatures whose lives had become an existence centered by the only things in their world, opium just as he knew that if he were ever to enter one of these places he would most likely never exit. The drowsing musk of the opium was quickly rendering him dizzy and as he turned into a cavern like alley to clear his mind, he blinked. He sat beside his wife. She was lying in bed, her thin black hair splayed out around her head like a halo of death. Just under three weeks ago she had been diagnosed with terminal cholera, her unborn child to die with her. He was holding her frail, bony hand when he heard a knock at the door. As he opened the door he recognized the face of the messenger for ‘the boss’. He had had a few visits from him in the past, all the same he would be handed two parcels, one with money for him and the other with an address. The address to which he was to deliver it. “We understand the situation you have at hand.” Said the messenger understandingly, “but the boss, as you well know does not appreciate tardiness, he has also warned of the recent disappearances of our agents.” He received merely a solemn nod in return, and with that he departed. Returning to his wife, the man contemplated his options. Backing out was not a possibility, he had heard of the boss’ punishments. The only path left was to deliver his parcel. As he returned to his seat he quickly realized he could no longer hear his wife breathing. He checked her pulse, it was clear that she was dead. He knew well that she had passed, and with her his last two ties to the world, with her his being. He blinked. The knife shot out of nowhere. He had no time to react. It slid cleanly and silently between his ribs. He gasped wildly as he was dragged into the shadows. His breaths were slowly becoming more labored as his face became paler. He was dead. Dead. His last feeling was the smell of the assassin’s fetid breath filling his nostrils. It was the end. He was dead.