Yue gazed up at the squat block of prefabricated cabins that he and his father called home. A single light shone from a window on the top floor. His father was still awake. Of course he was. He had a preternatural ability to sense whenever Yue had done something wrong. Yue pictured his stern and uncompromising face, etched with deep grooves from the long days spent outside directing the construction of the railway. This railway was his life's work, his masterpiece, not that he would ever see it like that. To his father, it was merely a task that he had been given, a job that needed completing to the exacting standards the China State Railway Company.

Yue mounted the metal steps bolted onto the side of the prefabricated cabin and started to climb. Using the handrail for support, he dragged his swollen ankle behind him. The going was slow and no matter how careful Yue tried to be, the steps creaked and squealed with every movement he made. Yue reached the top floor and slowly made his way towards the door to their apartment. He turned the handle and stepped inside.

His father was sat in his usual spot, at the table by the window that afforded a direct view of the railway line. Next to him was a bottle of Red Star. His cup was half full. He only ever drank one cup. A disciplined man by nature, Yue had never seen him drunk, in stark contrast to the men that he oversaw. On hearing Yue enter the apartment, his father pulled out the spare chair.

"Sit" commanded his father.

Yue let out a small grunt of pain as he made his way towards the kitchen table. His father turned away from the window and looked at him, his eyes colder than the moon.

"You're hurt" said his father.

Yue nodded in agreement without saying anything else.

"Sit down and take the pressure off your leg".

Yue sat down and his father went to go and look for the first aid box. When he returned he busied himself with inspecting Yue's ankle. He gave him some anti-inflammatories for the swelling and a glass of water to wash them down with. Then he cut a length of bandage. He worked in silence, not once asking Yue how he had injured himself. This was the sort of practical task that his father was comfortable with. There was a problem that needed fixing, so he set about fixing it. When he had finished, his father asked him whether the bandage was wound tight enough. Yue nodded without speaking. His father didn't ask about the missing motorbike or the blood smeared across his face. Those were problems that, unlike his ankle, had no straightforward solution.

Yue stood up and removed his shredded shirt. He tried to throw it in the bin but his father put up a warning hand.

"Don't be so wasteful".

He took the shirt from Yue and put it to one side. His father was part of a generation that never threw things away. Everything could always be mended or recycled. He refilled his glass with Red Star then soaked a cotton pad in the alcohol. He told Yue to turn around and dabbed at his cuts. Yue winced with pain and although it was entirely his fault, in his head he contrived to blame his father. If his motorbike hadn't been so gaudily coloured then the Uzbeks would never have found him. If he hadn't been so loyal to his job then they would never have come to Uzbekistan in the first place. If he hadn't been so cold and uncaring then his mother would still be here. Amidst the angry thoughts swirling around his head, Yue didn't notice the careful, almost tender, way his father cleaned his wounds. All he felt was the sting of alcohol and the inconsolable ache of knowing that he was the one in the wrong.

His father soaked a cloth in warm water and started to sponge the blood and sap off Yue's face. Humiliated, Yue snatched the cloth from his hand and faced the other way. He rubbed at his face in a hard angry way. Instinctively, he could feel his father wanting to know what had happened, but Yue resolved himself to silence. He was prepared to take whatever punishment his father conjured up for him, but under no circumstances would he explain himself. Ever since the death of his mother, their relationship had deteriorated into a cold war of action and reaction. There was to be no detente, only a long drawn out battle of attrition.

The next morning, Yue woke up sore and aching all over. But he soon forgot his physical discomfort when he saw the change that had overcome his room during the night. The small bookshelf above his bed had been emptied of the few books that he'd brought with him from Beijing. Each one of them had been carefully selected by Yue from his mother's possessions before they'd sold the flat. They were priceless, irreplaceable memories. But worse was yet to come. The desk where he kept his paints and brushes had also been taken away. On top of the paints he'd lost last night when escaping from the Uzbeks, it meant that he no longer had any materials to make new work with. His father had taken away everything that was precious to him, everything that made him a complete human being. The final blow came when he saw what had replaced his possessions. The space where his desk had been was occupied by a pick axe, a thick pair of workers gloves and a set of steel capped boots.

So, his father escalated this from a cold to a hot war. He'd pressed the red button and launched a nuclear strike. Yue was being sent to work side by side with the Uzbeks, breaking ground for his father's railway. It was unskilled manual labour, the lowest job in camp and one that no Chinese would be seen dead doing. Instead of throwing a fit, Yue felt a sense of calm purpose. He put on the boots, fitted the gloves and picked up the pickaxe. If his father wanted to play tough then he could play tough. He might have struck the first blow but he clearly hadn't read his Art of War. Never put your enemy in a corner they can't escape from, because that's when they're at their most dangerous.