Bad Traffic by Simon Lewis Page A

goodbye to your lady wife, and she’s going to get in the car, and you’re going in the van.’
    Ding Ming had understood little of the speech but he got the gist. ‘We stay together.’ He dropped his voice further. ‘Please.’
    ‘In a couple of weeks you’ll be together again. Say your goodbyes.’
    ‘I go with her.’
    ‘Soon as we get there, you’ll get a phone number. You can ring whenever you want. She’ll be having a much easier time than you – she’s off to pick flowers. Picking flowers is easy.’
    The lieutenants gathered round and, because all were much taller than Ding Ming, he fell into a pool of shadow.
    ‘You’re doing temp jobs, you go where the work is. I’ll make sure you and your wife are together on the next job. Alright? Say your goodbyes.’
    ‘You will give phone number?’
    ‘Yes.’
    There was clearly no point arguing any further. Ding Ming hugged Little Ye, chastely because people were looking,then joined the other men in the back of the dirty white van. It was a gloomy space, with torn and muddy seats, and rakes, spades and buckets strewn across the floor. The only window was in the back door. He scrambled up to it, and apologised to a man whose foot he stepped on. He wiped the grimy glass with his sleeve and watched his wife get into the car. As the van was driven away he waved to her, though he doubted she was able to see.

( 15
    All the migrants fell asleep. Ding Ming was used to travelling with his wife’s head either on his lap or against his shoulder, and the troubling absence of that warm weight kept him awake. He made his way forward, thinking to consider the view.
    Mister Kevin hunched low over the steering wheel and chewed gum and smoked. The back of his neck was thick and hairy and a gold chain lay half-buried in one of its creases. Outside, cows grazed in giant fields. All that good soil seemed wasted on cattle, and there was a great deal of fallow land where nothing grew but trees. The landscape looked unkempt and desolate, and the sloppy way it was used violated his aesthetic sense. He compared it unfavourably to the Fujian countryside, so compact and efficient, with plots sunk into every scrap of land and the divide between them only wide enough to step along. On the other hand, he was very impressed with the road – a good camber, flat tarmac, the markings crisp and bright.
    He could see few buildings, and those there were seemed huge. Perhaps the inhabitants lived in clan halls like Hakka people, or maybe the farms were giant communal ventures. He realised that the paucity of buildings and the desultory emptiness of the landscape were connected – this country was hugely underpopulated.
    They came into a city. It was not so unlike the other one Ding Ming had been to, Fujian’s capital, Fuzhou – wide, well-lit streets, endless concrete, glass and brick, right angleseverywhere and no animals to be seen. The most obvious difference was the advertising. He found the slogans obscure. ‘Go Beyond’. It didn’t make sense without a subject . ‘Just do it’. Just do what?
    The van stopped. The street was so empty it was eerie, as if some calamity had just occurred. Many lights burned needlessly. Ding Ming could see a splendid frontage filled with shoes, and next to it a magnificent restaurant. By craning forward he was able to read the English name, and his lips moved as he formed the words – ‘The Floating Lotus’.
    A Chinese man came out of the place, got into the front seat and gave Kevin a polystyrene takeout box. Ding Ming salivated at the smell of hot food. The fishermen woke, stretched and sniffed.
    The man introduced himself as Black Fort and handed out cigarettes. He was handsome, despite the ugly stain of a birthmark under his lip. He held up a mobile phone. ‘You know how it goes. One call each, keep it short, the money comes out of your wages.’
    His Mandarin was stilted, it was obviously not his first language. ‘The call shows we’ve done