We offer to pay but Dawn has already slid money under the glass screen and the clerk gives her three counters in return. ‘It’s two yuan anywhere,’ Dawn says.
Twenty pence.
‘They can give change here but if you get a bus on the street you have to give the exact money – or pay more,’ she adds.
We copy Dawn, swiping the counter on the toll gate at the bottom of the escalator to release the barrier. At the top the platform is enclosed in a transparent shelter with a curved roof. An electronic display shows when the next bus is due. I look at the route map to the side: the names are in Chinese and English. I try to memorize our stop, repeat each syllable silently. Look around for landmarks. There is the mall, and to the side of it two mirrored towers that cast shadows onto each other creating a trompe l’oeil: it appears as though there is a third ghostly black building between them.
The bus pulls in and the automatic gate opens so we can board. We make our way to the back where there are free seats. A television plays adverts for some sort of takeaway food outlet, then toothpaste.
From this viewpoint I can see the scale of construction work along the route. The base of a huge crater, the size of a city block, has been levelled, its sides banked up, a swathe of red earth. Hoardings at the far side advertise what will come, Forest Heaven Park, illustrated with an image of glitzy towers.
I think of that poster, the construction workers in New York, having lunch on a girder halfway to heaven. No safety net, no harnesses or hard hats.
Every so often a ringtone goes off and each passenger answers exactly the same way, shouting, ‘Wei?’ into their phone.
A recorded voice comes over the speakers, ‘The next stop will be…’ I can’t discern the destination, a string of syllables going up and down, abstract as musical notes.
I’m apprehensive about the meeting to come, these strangers who befriended my daughter, who were part of her new life. It may not be fair but I keep thinking they failed her. Failed to realize she was missing, failed to raise the alarm. The negligence or self-absorption of youth, perhaps. Or did they simply not care for her enough to worry?
The bus pulls in and I can see down a broad road below, lined with skyscrapers, gleaming in the light, choked by traffic. The horizon melts into the haze.
Two young women board. Both wear make-up, orange lipstick and black eyeliner, and gauzy dresses with pleated skirts, one in peach, the other in lemon. On their feet are the most elaborate shoes, tall wedges, jewelled and appliquéd. One pair has buckles around the ankle, the other a zip at the heel. Not the sort of thing you could run in.
