'I have no friends,' said Mae in a small voice; jerking away from Mr Wing.
Mr Haseem took her arms. Mae doubled over, to clench the papers to herself. Fire burned in her belly. Wing reached around her.
'This really is getting us nowhere,' Mr Wing said, still neat, still smiling.
Mae began to yell. 'They are stealing from me! They are robbing me! Thieves! Help!'
The paper was shiny so that messages could be burned cheaply onto it. It was slippery, and it began to slide now.
'Sezen! Ju-mei! Siao! Help! Ju-mei!'
Fire shot out of her, fire like Dragon's Breath, and she turned and let them have it. Fiery juices shot out of her burning stomach and over Mr Haseem's face.
'Ah!' he yelped, and backed way. 'God! She spat at me.'
'Mae,' said Kwan, rolling her eyes, shaking her head. She looked at Sunni. 'She just gets worse.'
'Her and Sezen,' Sunni shrugged.
'It burns. It really burns!' yelped Sunni's husband. The acids gnawed at his skin.
And Mae froze, for she was indeed beginning to believe in sympathetic magic.
Dragon's Breath.
Oh God, what if I've helped it happen?
Suddenly Wing was shaking her. 'Mae! Enough!' He got the papers.
'There is a fifty-fifty chance,' said Mae, in a weak voice. 'I'm not saying it must happen. I'm saying it could. I'm saying we must be prepared.'
Kwan looked at her with something like sympathy. 'I'm sorry, Mae. If you feel like coming to the party later, you will be very welcome.'
'She must be like a nuclear furnace inside!' said Mr Haseem, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
'I'm trying to digest my baby,' said Mae, a little stupid from everything that had happened.
They left her.
She listened to the falling snow.
The front door of the Wangs' house opened. In the warm light stood her brother Ju-mei. 'Mae, what is going on?' he asked.
'Oh, Ju-mei! They have taken the last of my papers! And there is a good chance of a Flood.'
'Come in – come and get warm,' he said. He gave her rice wine. He had a new little clock of which he was very proud. Mae relented, and toasted the New Year as her brother's prosperous little clock chimed.
She ignored the sounds of a party at Kwan's, and very slightly tipsy went back down Lower Street. Maybe it won't happen. There's a good chance it won't happen, she thought.
She got home. Siao was still not there. She pulled herself up into her loft and dragged a heavy trunk over the trapdoor. She opened up the connection.
More mail.
____________________
audio file from: Lieutenant Chung Lung
21 February
So what has happened now is even worse. I think Dad has gone back to you. I went to his room, and he was not there. Mum, Balshang is a mess, the place has roads and pipes for a million people, and no one knows how many have come here, between nine and sixteen million. I had not seen his place before. Mum, there was a lagoon of sewage behind it. All his things were gone. There was no sign of breakfast, just one very old dirty plate with hard food on it. That may mean he has been gone some days. He has no money, so must be hitching. He may think he will be able to get back to you through the snow. He is beside himself with despair. I don't think he even cares about getting through the snow. I think right now he probably wants to die. I thought I should warn you. If he turns up here with me or my sister, I will let you know. Try under the circumstances to have a good New Year.
Her spirits and her body sagged. What else can possibly happen? She turned off her machine. She pulled out the mattress and laid it on the plywood sheet that rested between the slats of her floor. The roof was the thinnest part of the house.
If the Flood came, she would hear it, and if it did not – thank God. She turned out the light.
CHAPTER 23
Sweat woke Mae up.
She sat up in the dark, suddenly wide-awake and gasping for breath. She had been dreaming of the Flood; she had heard it, the spreading crash of water and stone.
She listened. Everything was silent and still, but she was soaked with sweat.
The air! It was hot, hot as summer, as hot as those nights when you have to sleep outside. She heard a rustling in the eaves, like something breathing.
Mae threw off the covers and stood up, listening. Very faint under the sound of moving air, was a sound as if the hills were being tickled.
She switched on the light, and looked at the TV.
Forty-five degrees Centigrade.
'Wake up,' Mae told the TV. She threw on old jeans, rubber boots, and a light coat. She strapped on a rucksack filled with blankets and tins of food. She jerked the trapdoor out of its socket and dropped the bag down to the kitchen floor below.
'Siao!' she called. 'Siao, are you there?'
There was no answer. If Siao had gone down the hill, and was in a house or a cafe, he might be all right. If he was on the road when it hit… Mae did not have time for imaginings. She spun back around and sent an audio file.
'Bedri. It's forty-five Celsius, the Erjdha is breathing, and I can hear the meltdown. I don't know if it's Flood or not, but please tell people: if it is at the worst, we will need help. It's four-thirty a.m. now, and I need to store battery power, so I'm sending this off, and leaving. Don't bother replying, I won't be here. If it's bad, I'll be at Kwan's.'
Mae pushed the machine off, and lowered herself through the trapdoor, badly scraping her forearm. She could hear her breath rattling like gambler's dice. She dropped to the floor, and hauled back the curtains to Siao's alcove.
Old Mr Chung slept, quietly smiling. He smelled of rice wine. Mae called him, and shook him. 'Mr Chung-sir! Mr Chung!'
She dragged him blinking out of sleep.
'It's here, Mr Chung, it's here, the Flood – get up!'
He had fallen onto the bed fully clothed. Mae knelt and jammed his feet into string shoes. 'Come, Mr Chung, come!'
She rattled him out of the house, into the courtyard under the stars. The hot wind had blasted the sky clean; everything was hot and clear. She explained to Mr Chung that Siao was still down the hill, he must get to Mr Wing's Big House.
Then Mae pounded on the door of the Kens.
'Kuei! Kuei! Old Mrs Ken. Get up! Get up! Erjdha Nefsi!'
The window overhead was thrown open, wood clunked against the wall. Silhouetted against the whitewash was Mr Ken's mother, hissing.
