even more incapable of getting it right.
‘How old are you, William?’
‘Nineteen years.’
What a strange thing, to be sitting on a double seat with a boss, so close that he could feel Kevin’s thigh touching his own. He could see hairs sprouting from the man’s ears. The disconcerting sight diverted him so much that he did not hear Kevin’s next statement at all, so he said ‘yes’, but that seemed to be a satisfactory answer.
The man was offering him a cigarette. He knew he should feel grateful for this honour, but he regarded the packet with dismay. To decline would be rude, and might destroy any rapport that had built up. There was no choice, then, but to accept. But that itself had dangers, he didn’t know how to smoke. He would have to bluff it as best he could. He would not breathe in.
He took it, and Kevin leaned across and flipped a lighter with a fleshy thumb. The flame spotlit his face. His chin was covered with stubble, every follicle discernible, and not just around the chin, but all over his jaw. It made his face two-tone , pasty above and grey below. To Ding Ming’s eyes, used to flatter Asian faces, his nose was enormous.
Ding Ming sucked the filter and breathed out again immediately . The effect was much worse than he’d imagined. The smoke tasted stale and tickled his throat. He clamped his mouth shut, and felt his face redden.
‘Do you very much want to see your lady wife?’
Focused on stifling his throat’s rebellion, Ding Ming was powerless to reply.
‘I’ve got a phone number here for her manager, so you can ring and arrange a little chat.’
He took a diary out of the inside pocket of his coat, a bulky parka. ‘And I’ll even let you use my phone to call.’ Kevin opened the black book. Metal binders held a sheaf of loose-leaf pages. He displayed a list of addresses and phone numbers.
Ding Ming’s cheeks bulged and his neck muscles tensed and his shoulders drew back and his head seemed to swell. There was no stopping it. A throaty cough exploded. He bent over, racked with convulsions of coughing, and Kevin slapped him on the back.
Breathing heavily, Ding Ming waited for the red sparkles to fade from his vision. He felt like such a fool. Anyway, he would soon talk to his wife – he’d understood that much. He might have made a bit of an idiot of himself with the cigarette but it didn’t matter. The weight of worry was leaving his body.
He grinned, not out of social awkwardness for once, but joy. He brought up his hand to cover his rudely exposed teeth and saw that the cigarette still burned between his fingers . He thought about giving it another go.
‘Which number is it?’
But Kevin put the book back in his coat. His hand now lay around Ding Ming’s shoulders. Their heads were so close they almost touched. Ding Ming could smell the man, amusty, cloying odour, quite frightening for being so unfamiliar . When he spoke, his mouth stank of smoke.
‘What I want to know is, what can you do for me? Heh?’
Nausea rose from Ding Ming’s stomach and made him dizzy. He shifted, worried that he was going to puke. It was that cigarette, it had gone straight to his stomach. He did not feel right at all.
Kevin pondered his own question, tapping his bottom lip with two fingers.
‘How about this,’ he said, pointing a finger up as if suddenly inspired. ‘My balls are feeling heavy and I think I need some help with that.’
( 17
Ding Ming did not understand what Kevin was saying but he understood the meaning of the gleam in the eye and the sudden intensity of the man who was almost embracing him.
It seemed very quiet now in the van as Ding Ming fought his queasiness. The silence was broken by the twanging of an elasticated waistband as Kevin slipped his tracksuit bottoms down with his free hand. Grey underpants bulged.
‘Will you do this small thing for me?’ whispered Kevin. ‘Will you put it in your mouth and suck it?’ Kevin opened his mouth wide, and Ding Ming
‘How old are you, William?’
‘Nineteen years.’
What a strange thing, to be sitting on a double seat with a boss, so close that he could feel Kevin’s thigh touching his own. He could see hairs sprouting from the man’s ears. The disconcerting sight diverted him so much that he did not hear Kevin’s next statement at all, so he said ‘yes’, but that seemed to be a satisfactory answer.
The man was offering him a cigarette. He knew he should feel grateful for this honour, but he regarded the packet with dismay. To decline would be rude, and might destroy any rapport that had built up. There was no choice, then, but to accept. But that itself had dangers, he didn’t know how to smoke. He would have to bluff it as best he could. He would not breathe in.
He took it, and Kevin leaned across and flipped a lighter with a fleshy thumb. The flame spotlit his face. His chin was covered with stubble, every follicle discernible, and not just around the chin, but all over his jaw. It made his face two-tone , pasty above and grey below. To Ding Ming’s eyes, used to flatter Asian faces, his nose was enormous.
Ding Ming sucked the filter and breathed out again immediately . The effect was much worse than he’d imagined. The smoke tasted stale and tickled his throat. He clamped his mouth shut, and felt his face redden.
‘Do you very much want to see your lady wife?’
Focused on stifling his throat’s rebellion, Ding Ming was powerless to reply.
‘I’ve got a phone number here for her manager, so you can ring and arrange a little chat.’
He took a diary out of the inside pocket of his coat, a bulky parka. ‘And I’ll even let you use my phone to call.’ Kevin opened the black book. Metal binders held a sheaf of loose-leaf pages. He displayed a list of addresses and phone numbers.
Ding Ming’s cheeks bulged and his neck muscles tensed and his shoulders drew back and his head seemed to swell. There was no stopping it. A throaty cough exploded. He bent over, racked with convulsions of coughing, and Kevin slapped him on the back.
Breathing heavily, Ding Ming waited for the red sparkles to fade from his vision. He felt like such a fool. Anyway, he would soon talk to his wife – he’d understood that much. He might have made a bit of an idiot of himself with the cigarette but it didn’t matter. The weight of worry was leaving his body.
He grinned, not out of social awkwardness for once, but joy. He brought up his hand to cover his rudely exposed teeth and saw that the cigarette still burned between his fingers . He thought about giving it another go.
‘Which number is it?’
But Kevin put the book back in his coat. His hand now lay around Ding Ming’s shoulders. Their heads were so close they almost touched. Ding Ming could smell the man, amusty, cloying odour, quite frightening for being so unfamiliar . When he spoke, his mouth stank of smoke.
‘What I want to know is, what can you do for me? Heh?’
Nausea rose from Ding Ming’s stomach and made him dizzy. He shifted, worried that he was going to puke. It was that cigarette, it had gone straight to his stomach. He did not feel right at all.
Kevin pondered his own question, tapping his bottom lip with two fingers.
‘How about this,’ he said, pointing a finger up as if suddenly inspired. ‘My balls are feeling heavy and I think I need some help with that.’
( 17
Ding Ming did not understand what Kevin was saying but he understood the meaning of the gleam in the eye and the sudden intensity of the man who was almost embracing him.
It seemed very quiet now in the van as Ding Ming fought his queasiness. The silence was broken by the twanging of an elasticated waistband as Kevin slipped his tracksuit bottoms down with his free hand. Grey underpants bulged.
‘Will you do this small thing for me?’ whispered Kevin. ‘Will you put it in your mouth and suck it?’ Kevin opened his mouth wide, and Ding Ming
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