The Story Untold (那个不为人知的故事) by Twentine (周爱华): Chapter 1

 

That day, Yang Zhao was at her studio racking her brains over a piece of pottery when the phone rang.

The caller was her younger brother, Yang Jintian, who calmly brought her a message—he had been to the police station again.

Yes, again.

Yang Jintian went to the police station so frequently that Yang Zhao barely even blinked when she heard it. She simply asked, “Which station?”

“Lingkong Police Station,” he said.

Yang Zhao put down the ceramic bowl in her hands, narrowed her eyes, and said into the phone, “Lingkong? Why did you go all the way to the south of the city?”

Yang Jintian replied uncomfortably, “I came for a friend’s gathering.”

“And then? Did things get out of hand at a restaurant?”

“No!” As soon as the topic came up, he became visibly irritated. “One of my friends got drunk. When we were taking a taxi, he argued with the driver, and then it turned into a fight.”

Yang Zhao asked, “Did you hit someone? How serious is it?”

Yang Jintian shouted angrily, “We were the ones who got beaten up! Hurry up and come!” After shouting, he immediately hung up.

Yang Zhao put down her phone, washed her hands in the sink, and dried them. She put on her coat, checked how much money she had in her bag, adjusted it, and headed out.

It was already past eight in the evening. Outside, it was completely dark. A cold wind hit her as she stepped out of the studio, making her pull her coat tighter.

In northern regions in September, the weather had already turned chilly.

Yang Zhao went to the garage to get her car. Once she sat inside, she lit a cigarette first. The flame from the lighter flickered with the draft from the car door. She raised a hand to shield it.

She took a drag and slowly exhaled. The car filled with the smell of smoke.

Yang Zhao liked smoking—especially Yunnan cigarettes. Da Cheng Yuxi was her favorite. There were cigarettes everywhere in her home, her car, and her studio.

Only after finishing half the cigarette did she start the car.

She drove steadily and quickly along the Second Ring Road, leaving the window slightly open so the smoke could drift out.

Streetlights shone brightly.

Soon she finished the cigarette, crushed it out, and finally began thinking about her brother.

He was actually a pitiful child.

Three years earlier, a tragedy had taken both his parents’ lives. Yang Zhao’s parents took him in. That same year, she returned to the city.

She had been away for so long that she could no longer even feel real grief over her aunt and uncle’s deaths. She felt sad, but not to the point of heartbreak. As for this younger brother—she was seven years older than him, and their relationship could not be called close.

The Yang family’s way of interacting was polite and distant. She barely remembered him from childhood. What truly left an imprint of him in her memory was the funeral of her aunt’s family.

At the funeral, the fifteen-year-old boy cried as if the world had collapsed. The Yang family was usually restrained, and she had never realized that a man could be so devastated.

It was from that day that Yang Zhao decided to stay.

She did not live with her parents, instead renting an apartment in the city—two floors: the lower for living, the upper for work.

She tried her best to take care of her brother, though the results were limited.

Because of the accident, Yang Jintian had taken a year off school. He was now in his final year of high school, a crucial time, but he had no interest in studying. He attended the best high school in the city, which he had earned into himself, but after the accident he never studied seriously again.

Neither her parents nor Yang Zhao ever pressured him to study. It was an unspoken rule in the family:

If you don’t want to do something, no one can force you.

But that didn’t mean they didn’t care. In fact, Yang Jintian was one of the people Yang Zhao cared about most.

She gave him a generous monthly allowance, bought him books hoping he might one day come out of his grief, and showed up whenever he needed her.

Just like now.

The Lingkong Police Station was hard to find. With the help of navigation, she took many detours before finally stopping at a small, shabby building at an intersection.

The area was dim, lit only by a single streetlamp. Two old police motorcycles and a taxi were parked outside.

Yang Zhao got out and walked in. As she passed the taxi, she glanced at the license plate:

J4763.

Just an ordinary taxi. She looked once and continued inside.

There was no guard at the entrance. The station handled a small jurisdiction, and there were few visitors. She didn’t meet anyone until she reached the very back.

It was a slightly overweight middle-aged man, bald on top. He frowned when he saw her and approached.

“Who are you looking for?”

“I’m here for my younger brother. He said on the phone he’s here,” she replied.

The man “ah ah” twice. “The ones involved in the fight? Come with me.”

He led her upstairs, commenting as they walked, “Young people these days are so impulsive. Even the taxi driver got into a fight. If you’re the guardian, you should discipline him properly.”

Yang Zhao said nothing. The hallway was unusually quiet. The man glanced back at her. She showed no expression, and for some reason that silence made him feel awkward, as if he were being exposed. He stopped talking and walked on.

On the second floor, they entered a small office. It was cluttered, with a desk piled with papers and two uniformed officers nearby. On a bench sat three young men and one woman—one of them was Yang Jintian.

The others were completely drunk and slumped over asleep. The room smelled strongly of alcohol.

A police officer called Lao Wang walked over.

“Which one is your family member?”

Yang Zhao didn’t answer. She walked over and lifted Yang Jintian’s chin. There were no injuries on his face.

He frowned and shook her hand away.

“I’m fine!” he said irritably.

Yang Zhao asked, “Didn’t you say you were beaten?”

Lao Wang stepped in. “Oh, it’s nothing serious. Just his wrist got pulled a bit.”

She rolled up his sleeve. There was a red, slightly swollen mark on his wrist. Yang Jintian pulled his hand back. “I said I’m fine!”

Yang Zhao turned to Lao Wang.

“Where are the ones who did the beating?”

Another younger officer, Officer Xiao Song, already disliked her. He slammed a stack of documents onto the desk.

“Drunk disorderly behavior! They caused trouble with an eighty-year-old woman! Who are you to be handling this like this?!”

“Hey, hey, Xiao Song, calm down,” Lao Wang said, pushing his hand down. “It’s not a big deal. Just educate them and let them go.”

Yang Zhao stood in the middle of the room, looking at Xiao Song.

“Where are the ones who hit people?”

Lao Wang paused. Xiao Song cursed under his breath. Lao Wang held him back and explained again: a group of drunk youths tried to take a taxi; an elderly woman also wanted to get in; the driver felt sorry for her and tried to let her in first; the youths refused, and an argument escalated into a scuffle.

After hearing this, Yang Zhao asked, “Who hailed the taxi first?”

Lao Wang said, “What?”

“Who raised their hand first? Who stopped the taxi first?”

“Well…” Lao Wang smiled awkwardly. “Letting an elderly woman have a seat is only natural. You can’t argue over that.”

“So,” Yang Zhao said, “my brother was the one who first stopped the taxi. Officer, in any case, there is an order of first come, first served.”

Lao Wang’s expression darkened. “What are you even saying? This is such a small thing and you’re making it endless. Fighting over a seat with an eighty-year-old woman—that’s just trash behavior!”

Yang Jintian suddenly stood up.

“Who the hell are you calling trash?!”

Xiao Song finally got what he wanted. He slammed the table.

“Sit down! Sit down right now! Want to be detained?!”

“Fuck!” Drunk and emboldened, Yang Jintian tried to rush forward.

Yang Zhao stopped him. “Sit down.”

He struggled. “Let me go! I’m not afraid of them!”

“Slap—!”

Yang Zhao slapped him.

The room went silent.

Yang Jintian turned his head slightly. A red mark slowly appeared on his face.

She spoke softly:

“Sit down. I’ll handle the rest.”

Something in Yang Jintian’s eyes reddened. He sat down with his head lowered.

Then Yang Zhao turned—not toward the officers, but toward a dark corner of the room. There, barely visible, stood someone.

She looked at that person and said:

“The one who hit people… that taxi driver—it was you, wasn’t it?”