The survivor

Eighty-One

Shen Sun hung up the pay phone. This was the third time he had called Father, but he was not home. Which meant he was at either the Chinese Society Social Club on Pender or playing Mah-jong somewhere in Strathcona.

His absence put Shen Sun at a disadvantage.

He slammed down the receiver and turned away just in time to see a patrol car drive by. Inside the cruiser were two young cops — a man and a woman. The woman cop gave him a long, hard look, said something to her partner, and the car immediately turned at the corner.

Circling the block.

Shen Sun cut into the north lane. His head felt swollen from fever and his legs moved like a pair of rubbery stilts. He passed through the industrial section to Raymur Street, below the overpass, where the she-males and transsexuals plied their trade. This was the so-called bad area, a place of drugs and sex and violence. Yet it was also a good place. A lot of honest hard-working people lived here. Poor people.

Like Father.

Shen Sun crossed the road and hurried across the train tracks, under the cover of shadow. On the other side of the gravel path, the ground swept upwards. It was steep, but Shen Sun climbed it. At the top, he followed the bush line a few hundred metres south to a small hollow. He crept inside. From this vantage point, he could see the valley below — the train tracks, Raymur Street and, most importantly, Father’s small town home.

Everything appeared calm.

Father’s unit faced onto Raymur Street. The front door was closed, the drapes were open. However, the living-room light was on, which was disturbing, because Father had grown up poor. Lost electricity was lost money. Leaving a light on was something he never did.

Shen Sun watched and waited. Inside the unit, there was only stillness. No one appeared to be home. And no one was on the streets either.

That bothered Shen Sun even more than the light being left on.

He had spent ten years living here. Never was Raymur Street so quiet. Since setting up in his vantage point, he had not seen one police car drive by. And that was highly unusual. It told him one important thing: undercover cops were around.

Minutes ticked by slowly. The stillness made him edgy, made him want to return home. But if Father had taught him anything in this life, it was the importance of patience.

And so Shen Sun waited.

Just as he had waited so many years ago, in the forest brush that flanked the east end of Section 21. The memory was hot, blending in with his fever, and before Shen Sun knew it, he felt as small as a child again.

As small as Child 157.