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carriers of disease.
    At night the duty nurse said there were flies in my room and he wanted to spray it.
    I didn’t want the big fly to be killed, so I told him I was allergic to fly spray. He said he’d swat the flies for me tomorrow instead. I don’t know where the big fly is hiding. I plan to leave the window open while I’m sleeping so it can escape. I don’t know if that will save it.
    27 August – Drizzling
    I couldn’t save the big fly. At 6.40 a.m. Dr Yu came to check the room and swatted it on my picture. Saying that I wanted to keep the picture, I stopped Dr Yu from getting rid of the big fly, and put it in the fridge with the baby fly. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt they had a special relationship.
    I think the wound on my arm is slightly infected. It’s come up in a big red lump, and I’m finding it very uncomfortable to write. But I told the trainee nurse who changed the bandage that it was all right and there was no need to apply fresh ointment. To my surprise, she believed me! The long-sleeved hospital pyjama top covers my arm completely.
    I hope this will work.
    ‘Flies are great carriers of disease.’ Dr Yu’s words have given me an idea, which I’ve decided to try out. I don’t care about the consequences, even death is better than going home.
    I’m going to squash the big fly into the cut on my arm.
    30 August – Sunny
    Success! My temperature has been going up and up for the last two days. I feel very ill, but happy. Dr Zhong is very surprised at my turn for the worse; he is going to do another full blood test on me.
    I haven’t visited my dear little fly for the last few days. I feel like I’ve got cramp all over my body.
    Baby fly, I’m sorry.
    7 September
    Yesterday evening I was taken to the main hospital here.
    I’m very tired and sleepy. I miss my baby fly, I really do.
    And I don’t know if Yulong has replied to my letter . . .
    I finished reading this diary as the sun cast its first rays in the east, and the noise of people arriving for work began to filter through from neighbouring offices. Hongxue had died of septicaemia. A death certificate was included in the box of papers, dated 11 September 1975.
    Where was Yulong? Did she know about Hongxue’s death? Who was the woman in her forties who had left the box for me? Were the essays that Hongxue had published as beautifully written as the papers in the box? When he learned of his daughter’s suicide, did Hongxue’s father feel remorse? Did Hongxue’s mother, who had treated her daughter as an object of sacrifice, ever discover anything of a maternal nature?
    I did not know the answers to these questions. I did not know how many sexually-abused girls were weeping amongst the thousands of dreaming souls in the city that morning.

3
    The University Student
    Hongxue haunted me. She seemed to gaze at me with helpless and expectant eyes, as if begging me to do something. An incident that took place a few days later deepened my resolve to find a way to make my radio programme more helpful to women.
    At about ten o’clock that morning, I had just cycled up to the radio station when a colleague leaving after the early shift barred my way. She told me that an old couple had arrived at the station, ranting about having a score to settle with me.
    ‘What for?’ I asked, astonished.
    ‘I don’t know. They seem to be saying that you’re a murderer.’
    ‘A murderer? What do they mean?’
    ‘I don’t know, but I think you’d better keep out of their way. When some of these listeners get going, there’s no reasoning with them.’ She yawned. ‘Sorry, can’t fight it. I’ve got to go home and sleep. It’s torture having to come in at four thirty for the early news. Bye.’
    I waved goodbye distractedly.
    I was anxious to find out what was happening, but had to wait for the External Affairs Office to deal with the matter.
    At nine o’clock that evening, the office finally passed on a letter that the old couple