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against the wall. The man emitted a squeal. Peanut hit him hard on the chin and his knees gave way and down he went. The girl sat staring fixedly ahead, her hands splayed against the wall, as if steadying herself. Peanut said nothing, just leaned down andplaced two fingers in a pinch on her throat. Her skin was very soft. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows in a questioning expression. She gave a tight shake of her head. He let go his grip, bent to pick up the black bag and walked shakily down the alley.
    Xining bus station at night had the air of a transit camp, Peanut thought. Muslim families, the women in lace headscarves, sat on the floor amid orange peel and peanut shells cradling rose-cheeked children. Their men clutched mobile phones. Soldiers lounged and smoked. The tannoy clattered around the walls as the buses disappeared into the taut, dry night.
    The toilets reeked of chemical perfume and urine. The floor was slippery with spit. Peanut squatted in a toilet stall, shivering, massaging the knuckles of his right hand. He was savagely hungry. Before him, the man’s black bag.
    Peanut unzipped the bag. He was dimly aware of the clatter of the paper towel dispenser, running water, a man hacking and spitting. He pulled the bag open carefully. As he did so, it emitted a sharp electronic whine. He flinched. The bag fell on to the slimy floor. The whine resolved into the marching favorite, “
Dang Bing De Ren
,” “Those Who Join The Army.” The valuable man’s mobile phone was ringing. Heart thumping, Peanut took it from the bag. The phone hummed and vibrated between his fingers and blinked blue. On a screen a single character flashed on and off.
Jia.
Home. Peanut stared at the device. He’d never held one before.
So now we’ll turn it off. But how? Does one push a button?
Baffled, he stood up and dropped the phone into the squat toilet’s dark aperture. The noise continued. Peanut flushed, and it stopped.
    So, the contents of the bag. Cigarettes. A smart lighter. A diary—business meetings, something to do with property, phone numbers. And a black wallet. Within its folds five hundred and thirty-two yuan in a variety of notes, and the s
henfenzheng
, thelaminated identity card. Its photograph showed the man aged about ten years younger, with a face less lined and less ample than the one that had crumpled before Peanut’s fist. There was a likeness, perhaps, if you screwed up your eyes and hoped. Song Ping was the name, from Lanzhou.
    So that’s who he’d be. For now.
    Peanut stood, opened the stall door and walked to the sinks. He washed his hands with soap, scrubbing with his nails at the engine oil and blood. When he looked into the mirror, he wondered at what he saw. The skin was dark from the sun of the high desert, the hair short and bristled. In the eyes, something flickering between desperation and intention. He rolled his big shoulders, breathed.
    The money and the identity card were in his pocket. He buried the clutch bag in a bin, walked out of the toilet, keeping to the wall, and pushed into the line for the long-distance ticket booth.
    Where, to his horror, a policeman was checking documents. And another was standing back, just watching. Peanut looked down, patted his pockets, as if he had forgotten something, then stepped out of the line and walked quickly towards a fruit stall. He purchased a bag of oranges and without looking back walked out of the terminal to a stand of local buses. He chose one at random, boarded and paid full fare. He took a seat and looked back at the terminal. Four, no, five police cars had drawn up, and officers were moving through the long-distance terminal, trawling the crowd. For him? He sank low in the seat. The bus, half-empty, pulled out.
    The bus was slow and anonymous. It took him south-east from Xining, meandering through grimy, dead towns.
    Stillness is the enemy.
    He savored a dawn meal—dumplings of pork gristle and coriander, sluiced in black