Chapter 2

Professor Wu paused and turned to me.

“Do you remember the case? It caused quite a stir in 2000. You’re from here. Surely you remember something?”

I kept massaging him, treating it as idle conversation.

“I don’t remember much from 2000. Something happened in my family when I was eleven or twelve, and we moved south. Around 1998 or 1999, I think.

“I only came back a few years ago, so I don’t know much about what happened here then.”

I knew the bookshop. I had even gone to school nearby. But I truly couldn’t remember any such case.

“That explains it.”

He sounded faintly disappointed, lost in the past.

Then tears gathered at the corners of his eyes.

I quickly handed him a tissue.

“Professor Wu, are you all right today? You seem very tense. Your muscles are stiff too… Shall we stop for now?”

Usually, he cooperated, letting his body relax under my hands.

Today, he was rigid all over. Sometimes gooseflesh rose on his skin.

When he spoke about Song Yi’s death, especially, his muscles became hard as steel.

“I am a little tense…”

He sat up and wiped his eyes.

“You’ve been working for a while. Take a break. Tell me, what do you make of the case?”

Glad of the rest, I sat in the chair opposite.

“Put simply, a mentally disturbed man killed an innocent child and was shot dead.

“The only strange part is the ‘moon.’ What did that mean?

“The victim was called Hu Yue. Was it a play on his name?

“If so, maybe the killer was taking revenge?”

If it wasn’t a killing caused by mental illness, perhaps Hu Yue had killed Song Yi’s daughter and made it look like an accident. Then Song Yi had avenged her.

But there was something familiar about that word, “moon.”

I couldn’t quite place it.

“A logical deduction. But that wasn’t what happened.”

Professor Wu handed me a glass of water and went on.

“Song Yi was not mentally ill. I can assure you that every decision he made, from beginning to end, was conscious and calculated.”

Professor Wu’s Story

He told me about his life.

The details were almost exactly what the police had released.

But their version was Song Yi seen from a distance, from above: the man in a police bulletin.

Not a human being of flesh and blood.

Not his kindness, his endurance, his helplessness and despair.

People who had never known him could naturally say, with perfect coldness, “If someone’s that wretched, there must be something hateful about him too.”

For at least half a year, that was more or less the verdict whenever his name came up in casual conversation.

They weren’t wrong.

Song Yi had killed an innocent high-school boy.

Hu Yue was in eleventh grade. He had just turned seventeen.

A boy in the prime of youth, with no great feud against Song Yi—and yet Song Yi had murdered him brutally.

People speculated endlessly.

He must have been deranged.

Or taking revenge on society.

Clearly a psychopath. How could anyone defend him? How could anyone call him pitiful?

Yes. They had a point.

Seen from a distance, Song Yi had indeed killed someone. Killed him cruelly and dumped his body in the wilderness.

However many private agonies he had endured, he had crossed the law’s boundary. His suffering could not excuse the crime or lessen it. That would be an injustice to the victim’s family.

But look closer.

Who can say where a life will lead?

Trace Song Yi’s life backward, and every choice, every turning, begins to look like a road he could scarcely avoid.

All I can say is that he made his choices.

And I can understand them.

I met him in 1999.

That summer was unbearably hot. El Niño had only recently made itself felt, and the relentless heat left people miserable and powerless.

I was coming out of Xinhua Bookstore—yes, the one near where Song Yi would later be shot.

I was wondering whether to stop at the grocery shop for a drink when something happened.

Two young thugs, about eighteen or nineteen, had picked me out.

While I was paying the shopkeeper, one snatched my wallet and ran.

I chased him instinctively.

The other was waiting nearby. As I passed, he kicked me hard in the knee.

I collapsed.

The pain was so fierce I couldn’t go after them.

But a young man in dark blue work clothes had seen the whole thing.

He chased them for me.

That was Song Yi.

Quiet, but with a strong sense of right and wrong.

That was how we met.

He got my wallet back. I offered to buy him a meal in thanks, but he refused repeatedly.

At last he compromised.

I could buy him a drink.

He really was an honest, helpful man who expected nothing in return.

I went back to the shop and bought him a bottle of yogurt. He told me it was his favorite.

Whenever he drank it, his eyes narrowed to little slits of enjoyment. It was rather funny.

I was lactose intolerant, so I chose a fizzy drink.

The two of us squatted by the roadside outside the shop, drinking and chatting.

But we were both reserved men. Neither knew what to say. To fill the silence, we talked about our lives.

It struck me then how strange the world could be.

I was a university lecturer. My position and income were respectable. People treated me well.

Song Yi had left school after primary education and begun fending for himself. He worked from early morning until late at night to support his family, yet he was often short of money.

Social standing was the least of his concerns.

My parents and my wife were healthy.

His parents had died of illnesses years earlier because they couldn’t afford treatment.

He had only his younger sister to depend on, and she depended on him. She had intellectual and physical disabilities and had been placed in a specialist residential school.

My marriage was happy. We were considered a model couple in the neighborhood.

Song Yi’s wife had despised his poverty and left him for a businessman from another province a few years before.

She had left him to raise their little daughter alone.

…

Our lives were parallel lines.

They should never have met.

Friendship should have been out of the question.

Yet this strange turn of events made us friends.

And from then on, our lives began to intersect.

I told you earlier that Song Yi’s daughter had died in an accidental fall.

But that wasn’t what happened.

…

It was the year we met. Summer had not yet ended.

Song Yi was at work when he received the news.

His daughter had fallen from a height at school.

An ambulance from the 120 service had taken her away.

He rushed to the hospital, frantic, praying all the way that she would be safe.

But when he arrived, she was already dead.

I can only imagine how bewildered and desperate he must have felt.

That morning, she had still been his lovely little girl.

A few hours later, she was a cold body.

The police arrived soon afterward.

Security cameras were rare then. Investigators mostly had to rely on traditional inquiries.

According to the students’ accounts and the school’s report, a cleaner had forgotten to lock the rooftop door after finishing work that morning.

Song Yi’s daughter had gone up alone to play.

Her classmates warned her it was dangerous, but she ignored them.

Then she slipped and fell.

That became the final conclusion.

Song Yi refused to accept it.

His daughter had always been sensible and well behaved. She never played in dangerous places. Why would she go onto the roof by herself?

But no matter how he argued, words were all he had.

Who could prove it hadn’t been an accident?

There was no answer.

The finding remained: an accidental fall.

The school paid a token sum in compensation and dismissed the cleaner who had left the rooftop door unlocked.

That was the end of it.

I went to see Song Yi, wanting to comfort him.

But when I opened my mouth, I had no idea what to say.

Unless you have buried your own child, you cannot understand that grief.

So I chose to get drunk with him.

I have never had much of a head for alcohol. A little was enough to leave me dazed.

Vaguely, I remember that before I passed out, Song Yi seemed to say he had found evidence.

He had taken it to the school to demand justice for his daughter.

But my head was spinning. I soon fell asleep.

By the time I sobered up, it was morning.

Song Yi was gone.

He was a quiet man anyway. I thought little of it and assumed he had gone to work.

I had classes that day and needed to reach the university early.

Cycling past Xinhua Bookstore, I saw something odd.

Song Yi was standing outside the secondary school, arguing heatedly with the security guards.

I was across the road. They were loud, but I couldn’t make out their words.

I was in a hurry to teach, so I soon rode on.

Only later did I learn what happened that day.

Several guards beat Song Yi until he was covered in injuries and nearly unconscious.

They stopped only when the police arrived.

Yet it was Song Yi who was detained for disturbing the peace.

He almost lost his job.

The guards suffered no consequences.

I asked him why.

He was the victim. Why was he the only one paying a price?

He told me his daughter’s death had not been an accident.

He had found proof.

A few days earlier, he had taken it to the school and demanded an explanation.

After examining it, the headmaster had immediately promised to take the matter seriously. He would give it to the police and make certain the child received justice.

Song Yi believed him.

He handed over the only evidence he had.

The headmaster was a respected man. Surely he would deal with it fairly and uncover the truth.

But days went by without a word.

At last, unable to wait any longer, Song Yi returned to ask what had been done.

That was the scene I had witnessed.

The guards stopped him before he reached the gate.

He argued and tried to push his way inside to see the headmaster.

They beat him until his head was bleeding.

Still unwilling to give up, he went to the police a few days later and asked them to reopen the investigation into his daughter’s death.

Exhausted, he told the whole story over and over.

All he wanted was one fair-minded officer willing to look again.

So his daughter could rest.

One question silenced him.

“Have you got evidence? If not, stop interfering with our work.”

Before he left, they gave him a cold pat on the shoulder.

“She’s gone. The school has paid you. What more do you want? Let it go. You’re still young. Have another child…”

Words that sounded like comfort.

Nothing in them but coldness and despair.

At the time, I could not understand.

The headmaster had promised to establish the truth. Why resort to such a despicable deception?

Why couldn’t the police look again? Even if the outcome disappointed him, at least they would have tried.

Only much later did I begin to understand.

Once a conclusion has been reached, very few people want to overturn it.

It does nothing for them.

It may even work against them.

A school needs its reputation and examination results.

The police need social stability and a good clearance rate.

Unless there is absolutely irrefutable evidence of a wrongful finding…

Everything becomes another Rashomon: conflicting accounts, empty speculation, something to discuss after dinner.

Meaningless.

And the truth, when all is said and done, is only the truth.

Song Yi told me what lay behind his daughter’s terrible death.

His “evidence” had been her diary.

It recorded everything she had endured since enrolling at the school.

Today, we would probably give it another name.

School bullying.

His daughter was a good, innocent child, with a nature very like his.

She was pretty and tall. Even at that young age, it was clear she would grow into a beautiful woman.

He had shown me a family photograph. She really was lovely. These days, she might have become an online personality, even a celebrity.

There is an old saying: carrying a treasure can itself become a crime.

Not long after she started school, a group of thugs from outside noticed her.

They stopped her, made suggestive remarks, demanded she go out with them, and cornered her in a narrow alley near the school gate.

Innocent as she was, she panicked. She had no idea what to do.

That only encouraged them.

Their language grew obscene.

Some began grabbing at her, tugging her uniform and pulling her hair.

Terrified, she sobbed and shouted for help, hoping to draw someone’s attention.

School had just finished. People were everywhere.

She thought that if someone heard, surely someone would help.

That was what her teachers had taught her.

What her father had told her.

And what happened?

A busy road was barely a dozen meters away.

People heard.

Some looked over curiously. Some stopped to watch. Some even called their friends over to enjoy the spectacle.

Not one of them helped.

No one spoke up.

No one called the police.

…

Why?

She couldn’t understand.

They tormented her for a long time that day.

Her hair was in disarray. Her clothes were torn. Even a bra strap had been snapped.

She tried to console herself. At least it was daylight. They couldn’t do anything worse.

Eventually, it ended.

The spectators drifted away. The thugs left.

Only she remained, staring at the sunset, bewildered and hopeless, trying to convince herself it was a nightmare.

Only a nightmare.

And it was.

But it had not happened by chance.

What Song Yi’s daughter had endured was planned.

Public security was poor then. Hong Kong films, especially gangster films, had a powerful influence.

Teenagers copied them, forming little groups they called gangs.

Those thugs belonged to one.

And the onlookers were afraid to interfere because they feared retaliation.

The gang regularly caused trouble, fought, and harassed women.