Fortunately, Captain Xue’s shout had been forceful and timely. The confrontation amid the ruins had nearly become a chain of burning buildings, but the danger was stopped before it spread and the crowd quickly extinguished the fire. Presumably, the local construction crew did not want anyone dying over one cheap, broken-down house either. If money could buy a signature and agreement, who genuinely wanted bloodshed?
“The house is mine and the land is mine! Why should I move just because you tell me to? I won’t! I damn well won’t do what you want!” Wang Chongliang remained on the roof, refusing to come down and still confronting everyone below. Smoke had blackened his face until he resembled a soot bomb, while his hair stood up in spikes. He truly was an incomprehensibly stubborn bastard.
The crowd that had armed itself for the siege dispersed unhappily, while villagers shook their heads and muttered among themselves.
“That man is crazy.”
“No education, bad temper. Something was already wrong with his head when he was young. He’s been like this for years.”
“No wonder he’s almost forty and still can’t find a wife. Who would want to live with a lunatic?”
“…”
Ling He had apparently inhaled too much black smoke. When Yan Xiaodao and Assistant Mao dragged him back from the rubble, he bent over and coughed as though heaven and earth were turning upside down. Only then did Yan Xiaodao remember the young master’s inconvenient nicotine allergy. The homemade incendiary material smelled unbearable even to an ordinary person, much less Ling He.
Yan Xiaodao wrapped his arms around Ling He’s waist from behind, rubbing his chest and patting his back to help him breathe. Ling He had managed to transform his face into that of a black-faced opera character, streaked with several different shades of soot.
Ling He pulled free of Yan Xiaodao’s restraining arms and climbed the unstable wall onto the roof.
Only the whites of Wang Chongliang’s eyes remained clean enough to roll around and prove he was conscious. He sat among the rubble like a clay statue beneath a pale-purple sky still carrying the smell of smoke.
Ling He crouched in front of the half-crazed man. “You said you’ve lived on this street for seventeen years?”
Wang Chongliang snorted. “Yeah. And I’m not moving!”
Mr. Ling could not have cared less whether Wang Chongliang’s house was demolished. He went straight to the point. “Fifteen years ago, about thirty meters across the street from your home, an inn run by a married couple suddenly caught fire. Do you remember?”
Xue Qian climbed onto the roof as well and bent over to study the soot-blackened man. Wang Chongliang’s dull eyes shifted several times before he gave a miserable smile. “Burned. People died. They all burned to death.”
Xue Qian immediately asked, “Did you see it? Were you there?”
Wang Chongliang’s throat was hoarse from smoke. His smile was faintly unsettling. “All burned to death… House burned clean… Nothing left.”
Mao Zhixiu helplessly fanned smoke away with one hand and shook her head. “Mr. Ling, we finally find somebody who’s lived here seventeen years, and he turns out to be half crazy!”
It was impossible for Captain Xue not to feel disappointed. He had postponed the end of his business trip, gone into the field while injured, and arrived full of ambition, even boasting to local members of the task force that he would crack the mystery this time. He practically wanted to break apart every crime from every nearby village, missing children and trafficking cases, illegal gambling and extortion, telecom fraud and investment scams, then rebuild them into a single network to see whether hidden connections emerged. The investigation was turning into an obsession.
It was already too late and too far from the city to return that night. Ling He suddenly suggested, “Let’s stay one more night and go back tomorrow. There may still be other clues.”
Ling He did not even bother wasting time searching for lodging. He pointed at the ugly pale-green inn across the street and declared without allowing objections, “Captain Xue, we’re staying there tonight.”
He completely ignored the warning looks Yan Xiaodao kept throwing at him and cheerfully released more poison. “Mr. Yan, this has nothing to do with those sixty-yuan and hundred-yuan village women. I won’t presume to ‘order’ for you this time. Go next door and choose whichever one suits your taste.”
Yan Xiaodao put one hand firmly on Ling He’s shoulder and squeezed hard several times to vent his irritation.
Earlier in the cornfield, his injured foot had prevented him from catching Mr. Ling, which had been deeply frustrating. Yet Ling He evidently had not gotten enough entertainment. After circling around him for a while, he came smiling right back within reach. Yan Xiaodao seized his clothes and gave his backside a weak kick by way of punishment.
When the proprietress saw the city guests returning, her entire face brightened. Counting money in one hand, she happily surrendered the largest room to them and pointed the woman toward the only tiny single room.
Little village inns like this mainly housed long-haul truck drivers passing through. Several people often shared one room, and the conditions were so crude that Immortal Mao stood at the door scuffing her shoes for ages rather than enter. The three men, meanwhile, looked completely at ease. What filthy places had they not seen? Give them a dry floor and they could survive one night.
The handsome Captain Xue sprawled across a narrow single bed, limbs hanging loose, and within moments began lightly snoring.
Convinced that her earlier sales pitch had finally attracted customers who appreciated value, the proprietress generously addressed Mr. Yan. “One hundred yuan. She’s next door. Want me to call her?”
In poor remote places like this, married women who had long since borne children often treated sex as matter-of-factly as eating, drinking, pissing, and shitting. Between left-behind wives and single men, proprietresses and travelers, migrant workers separated from their spouses, temporary affairs met mutual needs and solved basic physical hunger. There was little embarrassment attached to it.
Yan Xiaodao practically sprang off the wooden bed. He was not remotely generous this time. “Don’t, don’t call anybody! Big Sister, seriously, please don’t. Go get some rest. We’ll pay every cent of the room rate!”
It was rare to see Mr. Yan so thoroughly defeated that he nearly bowed and kowtowed to somebody. The corner of Ling He’s mouth curved wickedly. This little interlude was far too entertaining.
The proprietress gave him the look reserved for some fake excuse of a man who had no idea how to appreciate an opportunity, then went downstairs in disappointment, privately deciding that city men were all looks and no performance where it counted.
Sitting on the edge of the wooden bed, Mr. Ling swung one crossed leg with shameless ease. Taking advantage of Captain Xue’s snoring, he leaned closer. “Mr. Yan, you’re awfully picky. Ordinary people aren’t good enough for you?”
Yan Xiaodao answered without mercy. “There’s one I like. You dare?”
Ling He refused to yield an inch. “Sure. Who’s afraid?”
Their gazes tangled together. If not for the even less romantic Yasha sleeping barely a meter behind them, both men were already having trouble restraining themselves. There was too much fire inside each of them.
Then Ling He surprised Yan Xiaodao yet again. He went downstairs to the moldy kitchen with damp walls and returned with a basin of hot water.
Ling He crouched on the floor, took off Xiaodao’s shoes, and placed his feet into the basin. The pampered young master did it as naturally as anything else, without explanation, as though every quiet act of consideration constantly declared: This was my plan from the beginning. Stay lame, Yan Xiaodao. I’m going to remain “together” with you exactly like this.
Given enough time, he would make Xiaodao surrender. Willingly or not.
Yan Xiaodao had never complained that walking all day made his feet hurt, but if Ling He could not recognize his exhaustion and pain without being told, then he would not be Ling He.
The battered window frames were covered in peeling green paint, and where the plaster had fallen away, great patches of wall resembled sores covered with crude bandages. Yet despite the miserable little room in a remote village, the air inside felt unexpectedly warm. Ling He said nothing tender. He simply lifted Yan Xiaodao’s leg and massaged the tired calf and ankle.
“Do you really care that I’m hurting, or are you pretending?” Yan Xiaodao complained helplessly. “If we’d known we’d end up like this, why did we bother with everything before?”
Ling He never avoided honesty when it came to feelings. “I really care.”
Yan Xiaodao understood Ling He’s character very well now. When Ling He said something so close to a confession, he meant it. Unfortunately, this particular man’s method of “loving” someone was enough to exhaust anyone. His thinking and tactics simply did not resemble other people’s.
Yan Xiaodao looked thoughtful. “Ling He, why did you insist on coming all this way? Did you already know the details and just refuse to tell me? Is there something wrong with this inn?”
“I don’t know that much either, only bits and pieces I heard secondhand. And even if I knew, what good would that do?” Ling He answered with simple logic. “What matters is whether we can find witnesses and evidence that allow Captain Xue to investigate the murder properly and believe the truth himself.”
Following threads, tracing vines back to their roots, lifting that ragged mat inch by inch until the old filth accumulated beneath it was exposed, peeling the truth free layer after layer. Yan Xiaodao understood perfectly what Ling He was doing. He was shaking certain beliefs Xiaodao had defended for years from the foundations upward. It touched the heart much more deeply than simply dumping the so-called truth on him and forcing him to swallow it whole, but it also hurt far more. Every day felt like sitting on needles while waiting for the final flood to rise and swallow him.
……
Immortal Mao pinched her nose and hummed inside the tiny bathroom, finding entertainment amid hardship.
Captain Xue’s snoring had already progressed through several musical movements, the nasal melody changing speed, pitch, and rhythm. Clearly, he was completely exhausted. Every so often, he even cursed somebody in his sleep.
The night was deep, but nobody’s thoughts were quiet. Ling He and Yan Xiaodao tossed restlessly on separate narrow beds, occasionally staring through the darkness at each other’s silent backs.
Mountain wind slipped through the ruined window and made a loose flap of wall covering rattle noisily. Somewhere out in the dark fields came a low, weeping sound that drifted near and far, high and low, almost like some ancient stringed instrument whose strings had not been oiled for years and were being pulled until they were ready to snap.
The sound strained upward until, at the highest note, there came a sudden snap, followed by a burst of crying. The voice was impossible to identify as male or female, hoarse and drifting as though from the distant horizon, yet somehow right beside the wall.
Who the hell was wailing like a ghost in the middle of the night?
The uselessly thin door creaked open. A slender shadow crept inside, moving quickly but glancing around furtively, apparently unaware that neither Ling He nor Xiaodao was asleep.
Yan Xiaodao waited until the shadow came close, then shot upright and seized it. Playing ghosts in front of Lord Blade? Who exactly do you think you’re fooling?
“Aiyah, you scared me to death!” The girl gave a very convincing shriek and immediately wrapped both hands around Mr. Yan’s arm, apparently feeling much safer that way.
The intruder was Assistant Mao from the single room next door, her pale face and dark brows appearing beneath the bedside lamp. Apparently even the toughest woman could fear darkness and ghosts. Immortal Mao was wrapped in a ridiculously floral quilt cover, looking exactly like a shamaness about to perform a possession ritual. Without waiting for permission, she jumped onto Ling He’s bed and squeezed beside him, mouthing, “Mr. Ling, Mr. Yan, this place is haunted, right? What the hell is that sound? It’s terrifying!”
Ling He asked, “What did you see?”
Immortal Mao pointed dramatically. “A black shadow went whoosh through the corridor. Faster than me!”
The corner of Ling He’s mouth twitched in contempt. There were no gods or ghosts in this world, only people pretending to be them. Nor could anything realistically move faster than Zhixiu, who practically specialized in running across rooftops. She had simply been frightened.
The strange crying rose again.
Pale green eyes flashed in the darkness as Ling He signaled to the others. Without a sound, he slowly put on his shoes, then suddenly rose from the bed and crossed the room toward the door in one long leap.
Ling He was not afraid in the slightest and did not believe in ghosts. His long legs carried him quickly into Mao Zhixiu’s room. Yan Xiaodao followed close behind and saw a dark figure appear from the opposite end of the ruined corridor before flashing down the staircase.
There was no green-faced monster with fangs, only a thief sneaking through doors and picking locks in the middle of the night. Yan Xiaodao lunged after him, and both men hit the creaking, badly damaged stairs at once. The weight of two grown men made the staircase groan as though on the verge of collapse. Worse, the staircase contained three ninety-degree turns from top to bottom. The bizarre geometry prevented Yan Xiaodao from stopping in time. Centrifugal force threw half his body outward and slammed him unexpectedly against the railing at the corner.
Ultimately, his injured ankle was still to blame. For one instant as he fell, Yan Xiaodao felt furious and bitterly frustrated. Once, catching a petty thief would never have reduced him to this kind of useless embarrassment. Was he really less agile now than Zhixiu?
Barefoot, he slid down the steps, lost his balance at the first turn, fell through the second, then rolled all the way to the bottom. Fortunately, he caught himself with one shoulder on the final step and spared his face, preserving both his high nose and the charming little mole upon it.
The black shadow jumped through a first-floor window and escaped.
Yan Xiaodao turned and glared furiously at the staircase that had betrayed him.
Immortal Mao, still wrapped like a dumpling in her flowered quilt, and Captain Xue exclaimed behind him, “Mr. Yan, that was one hell of a fall! You nearly crushed the staircase!”
Only then did the proprietress emerge sleepily from her first-floor room, showing absolutely no alarm. “What happened? What’re you doing?”
Xue Qian asked, “Boss Lady, did you not know this inn was haunted?”
The woman looked contemptuous, as though these city people were absurdly sheltered. “Happens every month. I’m used to it. Let her haunt the place.”
Xue Qian stared. “What?”
The woman became faintly embarrassed. She had originally intended to conceal the truth from guests, but now reluctantly confessed. “People died in this inn before. You already heard about that, right? Two people burned to death. So of course it’s haunted. Those two dead ghosts wander upstairs singing little songs and scaring my customers all the time! If I’d known the place was haunted, I’d never have bought this cheap plot. Somebody tricked me too…”
The corridor lights suddenly came on. Ling He slowly emerged from upstairs into the brightness, eyes sharp, carrying a strange object in one hand.
Ling He narrowed his eyes at Xue Qian. “Captain Xue, today happens to be a special date, doesn’t it? What date was the fire fifteen years ago?”
Xue Qian knew the case data so thoroughly that he answered instantly. “September fifteenth. Not this month, but yes, today is also the fifteenth.”
Ling He asked quickly, “What were the names of the married couple who died?”
Xue Qian answered just as quickly. “Both surnamed Li. The husband was Li Lianfu. The wife was Li Shuping.”
Ling He nodded. “Then it fits.”
Ling He’s gaze traveled across the mottled walls and old wooden handrail. He carefully ran his fingers over several black marks along the staircase rail, then held them beneath Xue Qian’s and Yan Xiaodao’s noses. The harsh smell of kerosene smoke remained unmistakable. Black ash had also rubbed onto the wall, darker on one side and lighter on the other, tracing the fleeing intruder’s path.
With his sensitivity to tar and smoke, Ling He despised and immediately noticed such odors. The moment he had rushed from the room, he had caught that familiar smell, like the bottom of a cooking pot burned black.
Xue Qian nodded and smiled faintly. He lowered his voice. “You also think there’s something wrong with the charcoal-faced fellow across the street?”
Ling He jerked his chin decisively. “Captain Xue, how about we block both ends and catch the turtle in the jar?”
……
Only three corners and part of the foundation remained of the dangerous old building amid the rubble. Little was left inside worth clinging to, except perhaps the final memories tied to this street and the people who once lived there.
Nearly forty and completely alone, where else could he go except remain beside this ruined building full of memories? Wang Chongliang sat dejectedly on a bed board beside a heap of torn cotton that only vaguely resembled bedding. His chest still heaved with the heavy breathing left by running and jumping through windows.
The man appeared dull and vacant on the surface, but from deep within his dark eyes came two unexpectedly lucid rays, quietly savoring the loneliness of the night.
His breathing from the escape had barely settled when a different, harder-to-suppress agitation rose inside him. He had lived alone for years without a woman. Beyond a few pornographic magazines and an inflatable doll bought online, imagination was all he had. Wang Chongliang remembered a woman from many years ago: a youthful flushed face, a warm and full body beneath his hands, the two of them embracing without restraint and rolling across the floor in secret intimacy. His rough hand disappeared beneath his clothes as he touched himself, though the images had already become indistinct. Remembered tenderness that was lost forever only made the loneliness more painful.
Something shifted faintly in the rubble outside. Doors and windows stirred.
Wang Chongliang remained absorbed in his desperate self-comfort, breathing roughly on the heap of cotton and unaware that people had already surrounded his ruined house from every direction and were witnessing the embarrassing scene.
A tall figure with long hair appeared at the window and solemnly imitated a thin woman’s voice. “Wang Chongliang, Li Shuping’s ghost has come to find you~~~”
Another tall figure blocked the doorway and gave a cold laugh. “Wang Chongliang, what are you doing? Who are you thinking about?”
Wang Chongliang jolted so violently he nearly fell off the bed wrapped in the ragged blanket. The figure from his imagination suddenly overlapped with the ghost standing in reality, making him genuinely believe the dead had returned. His face was still black with soot, but all desire evaporated beneath a sheet of cold sweat.
He instinctively grabbed something to defend himself. Long-haired Ling He came through the window in one stride and was already upon him. Ling He knocked aside the stool swung at him, snatched up an enamel mug of overnight cold tea from the table, and splashed the entire thing into the man’s face.
Wang Chongliang snapped out of his dazed arousal and dropped heavily back onto the bed, staring in shock at Mr. Ling and Captain Xue on either side of him.
Xue Qian frowned, thoroughly impressed by Ling He’s completely unreasonable approach to police work, but still handed Wang Chongliang a towel. “Wipe your face first.”
The ceiling light came on. Beneath the swaying bulb, Wang Chongliang reluctantly wiped away the tea and soot, finally revealing his real face. Unexpectedly, he was quite handsome.
A ring of beard surrounded his mouth and gave him a masculine look. His half-bare body was strongly built, his chest solid with muscle. In his youth, he must have been a strikingly handsome man. Yet Wang Chongliang’s gaze remained vague and evasive. Years of isolation had shaped his defeated, eccentric personality. He instinctively avoided other people’s eyes and seemed frightened of being seen. His back trembled faintly.
Mountains of rubbish made it difficult for Xue Qian and Ling He even to find somewhere to stand. Erotic posters covered the walls, while a plastic inflatable nude doll lay on the bed, advertising the bleak life of a middle-aged bachelor.
Xue Qian and Ling He looked Wang Chongliang up and down, both apparently surprised that the village eccentric was actually rather good-looking.
Xue Qian dragged over a chair and sat. Speaking earnestly, he said, “Wang Chongliang, we came to talk about what happened years ago. If you have difficulties, if there’s anything we can help with, tell us. But tell us the truth.”
Ling He had no interest in circling politely. He cut directly into the question. “Mr. Wang, as this village’s last demolition holdout, could you explain something? The relocation compensation is generous. Every other man, woman, and child has moved. Why are you the only household refusing to leave? What is special about this ruined house? Or perhaps it isn’t the house. Perhaps this street and this village have some special meaning to you?”
Wang Chongliang trembled faintly. His fingers searched beneath the blanket for a cheap cigarette, only for Captain Xue to place a much better one directly into his hand.
Ignoring the nicotine smoke, Ling He continued, “Mr. Wang, why were you pretending to be a ghost inside the inn across the street in the middle of the night? Who were you trying to frighten? Were you trying to drive away the woman who owns the place now, or were you trying to summon somebody’s soul?”
“Wang Chongliang, what was Li Shuping to you? Why, every month on the fifteenth, the date of Li Shuping’s death, do you return to the place where she burned to death and set up this memorial tablet for her? Do you go there every month and pretend the inn is haunted?”
The cigarette shook between Wang Chongliang’s fingers, scattering weightless ash across the floor. At the name “Li Shuping,” light involuntarily returned to his eyes.
Ling He’s interrogation style had always been relentlessly aggressive. Behind that handsome face was a brutally sharp tongue, and he saved his strongest weapon for the decisive moment. Now he produced the strange long wooden object he had found in a corner of the inn and slammed it upright onto the shabby table.
The object glowed faintly beneath the lamp. Seen in darkness, it truly did look rather eerie. In reality, it was only a handmade wooden memorial tablet. Two lines of clumsy red-painted characters covered it, without the slightest calligraphic grace, clearly written by a poorly educated rural laborer. Yet the crude lettering carried genuine emotion and longing.
【Memorial Tablet for My Beloved Wife, Li Shuping, and My Beloved Son】
Xue Qian frowned in confusion. “Who exactly are you? Were you Li Shuping’s husband? Her husband, Li Lianfu, died in the same fire.”
Wang Chongliang shook violently and suddenly cried out hoarsely, “I’m not Li Lianfu! I’m not that heartless dead bastard husband of hers!”
Ling He asked, “Then what were you to her?”
Wang Chongliang’s mind seemed suddenly to come apart. He smiled. “I was her man. I was her real man. She was my wife…”
Everyone present understood at once. Wang Chongliang, who had lived in the village for seventeen years, truly had been an “Old Wang next door.” Fifteen years ago, he had been the dead innkeeper Li Shuping’s lover.
Elio’s Notes: “Old Wang next door” (隔壁老王) is a long-running Chinese joke and euphemism for the man secretly sleeping with someone else’s wife, essentially the stereotypical illicit lover living next door. The fact that this particular lover is genuinely surnamed Wang is the chapter’s punchline.
There was now every reason to believe this man knew the truth about what had happened to Li Shuping and her husband, and had deliberately kept it buried for fifteen years.