Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 320

Injustice Sha Tin College, Ying, Zoe - 11 I t was a dark, foggy day in Shanghai. A chill northerly wind blew, and it was hard to see. People hurried, heads bent, in the street, eager to get out of the cold. A tram rattled down the cobbled streets. An advert for Casa Blanca shone out. Without warning, somewhere in the distance, was a shrill, piercing, bloodcurdling scream. A few stopped, looked towards the sound. Others trudged briskly forward. The screaming now turned to hysterical sobs. Through the fog, one could see a silhouette: a woman, dressed in a Qipao. She leant over the still body of a child, shoulders rising and falling. Many kilometres away, in another part of Shanghai altogether, in a small alleyway, dank houses on both sides, an old man, clutching a gnarled walking stick, collapsed. He twitched, taking slow, raspy breaths. He choked, unable to breathe properly. He tried to run, but without his walking stick he could only crawl. He drew one last, shuddering breath and stopped breathing altogether. His eyes rolled backwards into his head. He was dead. Approximately an hour later, his body was discovered by his daughter, who had stepped off a rickshaw. One arm was stretched out, his walking stick lying forgotten on the ground. A tear had leaked from one eye. Similar things happened all over Shanghai, leaving many - dozens - dead, mainly children and elderly. What was strangest about this, though, was that no property had been lost, and the dead had not had any visible wounds. People were puzzled by this, and concluded that it was a supernatural crime. New China News Agency claimed that it was the ‘crime of the century’ and said that the murderer was still at large. The municipal police set up a manhunt, with people all over Shanghai looking for him. Many were scared that the murderer would strike again. Even after many months, the murderer could not be identified. The old man’s daughter, whose name was Ying, became distressed and often went to the temple to pray to God, for him to help her find the murderer. Numerous times, there were other people around, mainly for the same purpose. One day, however, with yet another inconclusive repost in the news, she went to the temple to pray. For a second she stood, yet again, in awe of the temple. It was a traditional one, with beautiful pagodas and grinning gargoyles. The rich red paint, the black doors, the green of the garden. Its beauty always calmed her down. This time there was nobody around, only her and the temple god. The statue was painted very lifelike, except in white marble. The eyes seemed to gleam and the clothes chiselled with such detail they seemed to flutter in the wind. She knelt beneath the statue, and repeated what she always said: Help me find the murderer so I can have justice over my father’s death. This tim e, however, when she stared into the statue’s stone eyes, the supernatural occurred. The statue blinked. Ying rubbed her eyes. I must be dreaming, she thought. This is ludicrous; statues don’t blink! Whilst staring in wonder, trying to decide whether the statue had blinked or not, Ying saw the statue’s mouth move. “Fog is the murderer,” He said, in a serene voice. “Who is Fog?” She suddenly felt daft. What would people say when they caught her talking to a statue? To her surprise, He answered. “He is a nomad, drifting from one Chinese city to another. He is translucent, and he shifts so you can’t see his face.” Unexpectedly, the window burst open and a whirlwind flew in. Ying turned, frightened. It was yellow-black in colour, and carried with it a sharp odour. When it stopped, she was able to distinguish it as Fog, a misshapen giant of a man, wearing dirty rags. Speak of the devil! she thought. “What did I hear?” Fog asked rhetorically, in a booming, resonating, tone.