The survivor

Fifty-Two

It was late, and the night was dark and cold. It was all Red Mask could do to keep his feet moving and his body from collapsing.

His destination — a barely noticeable hole in the wall — was an old herbal shop, on East Georgia Street. Like every other shop in Chinatown, the banner out front was red on gold: Happy Health and Good Fortune Herbs and Pharmaceuticals.

Sheung Fa had taken him here, many years ago, when he was young. His words had been clear: ‘For you, always will these doors be open.’

And that was what Red Mask was now counting on. For in his deteriorated state, there was nowhere else to go. Certainly not home. He would never go home again. There was nothing more disgraceful a man could do than to knowingly bring evil into his father’s house. And with the amount of people he had now killed, there was evil all around him. He could feel it. Like diesel fumes on his skin.

The thought landed in Red Mask’s stomach like a hard stone, and his eyes welled with tears. He touched beneath his eyes. Amazement flooded him when he felt wetness. Weeping. He was actually weeping. Something that had not happened since childhood.

‘What happens to me?’

The words hung there, exposed as much as the hole in his shoulder.

He killed the thought and moved on. The pain was excruciating now. If not addressed, the injury would overtake him, and he would not last long enough to find the girl.

With the stairway tilting, he descended the concrete steps and stumbled into the darkness of the alcove below. The door was locked. He knocked three times and heard shuffling feet. When the door opened, his legs finally gave way and he collapsed.

‘Sheung Fa sent me,’ he said.

He repeated the words over and over again as he lay on the cold wet concrete.

It was all that he could do.