Night Heron by Adam Brookes

camps for a year or two, no trial required. “But we heard last month they were starting to corral the men and send them away somewhere. We’re not quite sure what it’s all about. But it’s different.”
    Mangan raised his eyebrows. “You heard where?”
    “That I cannot share. But you might try some of the families, no?”
    Charteris downed the rest of his champagne. He has perennially golden skin, Mangan thought. He belongs on a yacht.
    And now he was readying to move. “Better go. The Central Committee seems plagued by frogs.” He turned away and then hesitated. “Philip, it was a very good story. I’m glad someone’s paying attention.” And with a mock-stern glance, Charteris eased away into the crowd.
    Mangan knew the compliment for what it was—the polished work of a diplomat. But he enjoyed it, anyway.

4
    Beijing
    Peanut walked. He tried to stay with a crowd. He found the noise extraordinary. No shop was without an electronic wailing and tinkling, or the beat of music so loud he felt it in his stomach. The traffic roared, and every other pedestrian squealed into a mobile phone.
    Twenty years of silence, of wind on the desert, now this.
    He tried to watch his back, weaving an irregular course, retracing his steps.
    He walked east, past the shining department stores whose messages and purposes, expressed in screeching primary colors, on flickering screens, he could not fathom. On one street, a parade of girls, dozens of them, thin as saplings in identical tight scarlet dresses, handed out leaflets. He reached for one, just to touch the glossy paper, but the girl ignored him so thoroughly it was as if she didn’t even see him. Peanut found this both salutary and reassuring. Peanut did not wish to be seen.
    Mid-morning found him on a detour. He crossed up into Beihai Park and walked by the lake. A weak autumn sun had broken through. On the lake, a lone pedal boat paddled by awoman in yellow and a child. He stopped, examined the contents of his carrier bag. Valuable man’s funds were dwindling, only one hundred and fifteen yuan left. He extracted a crumpled note and purchased an ice cream and sat on a stone bench, before suddenly rising and moving off quickly as if the staying still had become too much to bear.
    He sensed Tiananmen Square before he saw it. The noise diminished. The architecture reverted to state brutalism, looming over the vermilion walls of the Forbidden City. He took an underpass amid schoolchildren who chattered like starlings in a hissy southern dialect, and climbed the steps that would bring him out on the square.
    As he emerged into the sunlight two men in polo shirts, static, attentive, looked straight at him. His stomach lurched. The children streamed past. Turn around? One of the two saw him hesitate, and gestured idly, a flip of the hand. Here, now.
    Reflexively, Peanut turned to his cringe. The slight stoop, the falling shoulders, the bowed head, hands crossed in front of the body.
    One of the two looked him up and down.
    “
Lai zher ganma?
” What are you doing here?
    “Just walking, Officer, some exercise.”
    “What’s in the bag?”
    Peanut said nothing and opened the carrier bag. An apple, some underpants, some money. A newspaper clipping, wrapped in plastic. Polo Shirt peered in.
    “No posters, no banners?”
    Peanut affected shock. No, Officer. Absolutely not.
    Polo Shirt heard the Beijing accent, but saw the hard hands, the banknotes. Something not right. Valuable man’s identity card would not last a second here. Break his train of thought, now.
    “And, Officer, if I may ask, what time would the flag-raising be tomorrow?”
    Polo Shirt said nothing, just gave him a hard look.
    “Only I have to bring my grandson, who’s in from Harbin. And I’m not sure what time we should get here. For the flag-raising. Can you help me?”
    Polo Shirt jerked his head towards the square.
Zou.
Go.
    Peanut hurried away, his mouth dry, lost himself in the crowd.
    On the square,