Part 10 (1/2)

”Will you call her for me? I'll pay you.”

Rashmilla shook her head. ”You don't want me to leave the ghosts alone. They are nice when I'm here.”

”Nice?” Lisa looked at her to see if she was making a cruel joke.

”They behave for me.”

”Why can you step out?”

”They don't know if I'm a ghost or a woman.”

”If we lift the stones, will the circle be broken?” Lisa felt nausea and pain when trying to talk. The ghosts of two young boys with yellow eyes pulled her backward.

”They are set in concrete. Cannot be lifted. You could read the names but they don't want to be released.”

”Her name's Selena. She's on the radio.”

Rashmilla nodded. ”I know that lady. The police chief calls her Sell. He says, Sell, what do you think, but he doesn't listen to her answer. I see through every window. Sell lies naked with the police chief.”

”Selena?” Lisa had never felt so stupid, so naive, so ill-informed and betrayed. Her career was a joke; she could not research, write, or investigate to save her life.

”How do we stop the ghosts?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. The ghosts rose up, snarling, teeth bared in fury.

”There is no way,” Rashmilla said. ”They don't like noise, they don't like talk, they are caught by the endless circle of stones.”

A taxi pulled up, and a young man stepped out. Lisa knew him, the editor of a local ”radical” magazine. She'd met him a few times at drinks, and they'd spoken of change, of effecting change. She'd emailed him at the moment her house was taken. She didn't know if he'd responded or not.

”Don't step in,” she tried to shout, but the ghosts of the young boys kicked her s.h.i.+ns, knocked her to the ground and hovered their filthy faces in hers. There were bleeding cuts on their cheekbones.

Rashmilla stepped out to greet him, then helped him into the circle. Her childhood ghost ruffled his hair, looked into his ears.

”Dale,” Lisa said. One of the ghost boys grabbed her tongue, spat in her mouth. ”Dale, lift the stones,” she said, but he didn't hear her, didn't recognise her in the dirt. He caught his toe on a jagged corner and he tripped. He broke his fall with the heel of one hand, and a sharp edge sliced into the soft mound and blood oozed out.

He walked his arrogant, hip-thrusting walk past her to the stairs. Rashmilla helped him, but Lisa could see the ghosts hovering behind her, waiting for her to release him.

A scream came, harsh and odd in the silence.

She still had the energy to step forward and look, see what had caused the noise. Other people did too, men and women dragging themselves out of their small, stinking rooms to see Keith, fallen or pushed, splattered on the ground.

There was a sigh, a collective sigh, not of sorrow but of pure envy. ”Lucky lucky lucky lucky lucky,” Lisa heard, the people whispered. ”Lucky lucky lucky,” but none of them leapt over, none of them had the strength or the power to die.

Lisa opened her mouth to let the noise out, but around her the ghosts waved their fists and she swallowed it down.

Lisa thought of all the silenced voices and how many more there would be. Soon this place would be empty again, starved husks removed or left to rot or to be buried by anyone who had the strength.

She felt a great sense of impetus, of gravity.

Lisa said, ”Matches?”

Rashmilla said, ”Money.”

Lisa gave her all, gave her everything she had.

She thought clothing would burn well, so she went upstairs and put on everything from her suitcase. The T-s.h.i.+rt with ”Bali--Party Town” on it that she wore to bed. The scarf her mother had knitted her. The jeans she'd bought in Hong Kong and wished she'd bought ten pairs, because they were perfect.

She put all that on. She collected a can of fuel from under the stairs and stood there, out of sight. She struck a match.

The ghosts were furious, ripping out her hair, tearing it out in chunks, tripping her. The ghosts came at her and she felt her energy leaving. She had to finish it.

Lisa struck another match. She heard whining behind her. Rashmilla said, ”What are you doing? You have made them angry.” Her childhood ghost clung to her, hiding her eyes in the torn material of her dress.

Lisa set fire to her scarf, to the long sleeves of her s.h.i.+rt, to the cuffs of her jeans. She fell to her knees as she burnt, screaming with pain, so full of it she no longer noticed the ghosts. From the great heat to cold. She had been under anaesthetic three times before and this felt like that had: the cold starting at the entry point, in the arm, and pumping with the blood till her heart was chilled to stillness.

She grabbed a gravestone and she felt something s.h.i.+fting, moving inside her. Her ghost lifting. The body slumped; her ghost flew up.

”You won't last. You are not meant for here,” Rashmilla said. ”You can't escape. We have tried.” Her childhood ghost shook her head.

”Shhh,” Lisa said, and thrust her fist into Rashmilla's mouth.

Keith joined her, fresh ghost, lacking bitterness, unconfined. They moved together, waiting for Police Chief Edwards, for Selena and others like them. Ready to fill their mouths with fists and hair, ready to stop their words and change the world.

”Wizard World”

Yang Ping.

One of the bright young stars of Chinese science fiction, Yang Ping was born in 1973 in Shanxi and studied at Nanjing University. He is currently an IT journalist. His first story was published in 1996, and since then he's published several more stories, a novel, and a short story collection. The following story won China's Galaxy Award for science fiction.

The colours of the World were 256.

I regretted going there, even whilst going deeper. I had got the address from a guy named Pig Tongue ten minutes before, which was as long as I'd known him. He talked about the place as if it were a Heaven and seemed to think no other third-level World could be more beautiful. ”But I can't tell you more. It's a matter of permissions, you know...” he whispered in a low voice. He even showed me his Heart. I promised him that I would come here, by the trust that that exquisite Heart gave me. And he got ten points, of course. We must pay for everything, in this society.

It was a ruined place. The brown-green land, the blue sky without clouds, the horizon with third-level colour scheme...d.a.m.n! Even the lamest newbie in the World could do better than that. But, since I was already there, I walked around and looked for some fun.

The point appeared on the horizon and grew to become a house in a short time: it had two floors and many windows. I moved to the front door, tried the handle, but it wasn't responding. If anything interesting existed in that World, then it had to be hiding in the house. There were no other houses.

I looked up. There was a chimney on the roof. I thought maybe I could fly there and try to get in. I turned on the Aircraft. A window popped up, startling me: ”Flying access denied.” No sound support either. It was rubbish, but I wasn't as surprised as in the beginning. I walked around for a whilst. No place to climb. No window to open. I walked back to the door.

Suddenly I noticed a flower basket by the door. The petals were clear. This design, this meticulous design in this ruined place, had to mean something. I issued a command: Get everything from the flower basket. The system responded: ”You get a key!”

It was easy...looking back, I should have known it was too easy. I didn't.

I opened the door with the key. There was a living room with a sofa, a carpet, et cetera. Stairs led to the second floor. No-one there. I walked to a computer at the corner of the room, pressed something that looked like a switch.

”h.e.l.lo, Xingxing. What's the problem?” the screen said.

Huh? It knew my name. Interesting. ”I am confused,” I said.