upstairs rooms were doing fierce
business, and in the bar the drinks couldn’t flow fast enough. Most of the customers upstairs were Malayans who, as Muslims,
didn’t imbibe alcohol.But there was a bunch of rowdy Chinese loggers who were stirring up a handful of white men who had rolled in, already well
oiled. Madoc drew on his cigarette and narrowed his eyes against the smoke; it was one of the bull-necked Brits he’d hurled
into the river. He shrugged indifferently. It wasn’t the first white man he’d killed, and sure as hell it wouldn’t be the
last.
He shouldered a path across the wide room, slapping backs and exchanging greetings with his customers in fluent Malay, before
he slid behind the bar where a middle-aged white woman was mixing a lime juice and lemonade for a wiry Tamil with severe pockmarks
on his face. She was a big woman, full-breasted and a behind like a hippo’s, but she stood no nonsense from the other side
of the counter. She filled the small space, and as Madoc edged past her, he couldn’t resist a quick squeeze of her buttocks,
her flesh heavy as a sun-warmed melon in his palm. He could feel her skin moist with sweat under her cotton skirt before she
reached behind and swatted his paw away. She didn’t even jog the bottle in her other hand.
‘Madoc,’ the Tamil logger, moaned, ‘keep your greedy hands off Kitty while I’m talking to her.’
‘Take no notice of the Welshman,’ Kitty chuckled. ‘I don’t.’
Madoc scooped up a good bottle of saké from beneath the counter, brushing the back of his wrist over one of her sturdy calves
as he did so, and headed out the other end, raising the flap of the counter to emerge among the drinkers.
‘Kitty could always complain to her boss,’ he joked over his shoulder.
‘But you’re her boss,’ the logger pointed out.
‘Exactly.’
‘I’ll tell my husband one of these days,’ Kitty threw after him, laughing. ‘Get him to thump you, Madoc.’
‘That will be interesting.’
The woman swivelled her eyes across to where Madoc was heading towards a table at the far end of the bar where three men in
clean white shirts were seated, and then back to him. For a moment their gaze snagged on each other, and she blinked a silent
warning to him.
Be careful
. He tipped her a nod, then sauntered over to the table where the three men were sitting. They were Japanese.
‘More saké, gentlemen?’ he suggested in English, and placed the bottle in the centre of the table. He ousted a nearby drinker
from a chair andhitched it up to join the quiet group of white shirts. ‘Enjoying your evening?’
‘
Arigato
, thank you, Madoc-san. It is good business here tonight.’
The one who spoke was the youngest of the three, and as Madoc knew from experience, the politest. He was the only one who
seemed capable of a smile. All three were lean and narrow-shouldered but looked fit, with smooth, unlined faces and hair cropped
short. The oldest, a man a little more than Madoc’s own age judging by the shadowy grey stubble on his head, had cold, implacable
eyes that rarely blinked. He spoke little. Madoc wasn’t sure whether it was because his English was poor or because he chose
not to communicate his thoughts. He suspected it was the latter. He offered them his cigarettes but they all declined with
a precise shake of the head, a small gesture of distaste before taking out their own cigarettes and lighting up. It was a
little routine they went through each time, so he should be used to it by now. But still it irked him.
‘You’ve heard, I’d guess?’ he said.
‘
Hai.
Yes.’ The polite one again.
The third one, a man who had the look of someone eager to get the moment over and done with, said, ‘That’s why we’re here,
Madoc-san.’ He nudged his glass nearer the bottle.
Madoc picked up the saké and poured each of them a drink. For the first time they showed a flicker of interest.
‘Down the
business, and in the bar the drinks couldn’t flow fast enough. Most of the customers upstairs were Malayans who, as Muslims,
didn’t imbibe alcohol.But there was a bunch of rowdy Chinese loggers who were stirring up a handful of white men who had rolled in, already well
oiled. Madoc drew on his cigarette and narrowed his eyes against the smoke; it was one of the bull-necked Brits he’d hurled
into the river. He shrugged indifferently. It wasn’t the first white man he’d killed, and sure as hell it wouldn’t be the
last.
He shouldered a path across the wide room, slapping backs and exchanging greetings with his customers in fluent Malay, before
he slid behind the bar where a middle-aged white woman was mixing a lime juice and lemonade for a wiry Tamil with severe pockmarks
on his face. She was a big woman, full-breasted and a behind like a hippo’s, but she stood no nonsense from the other side
of the counter. She filled the small space, and as Madoc edged past her, he couldn’t resist a quick squeeze of her buttocks,
her flesh heavy as a sun-warmed melon in his palm. He could feel her skin moist with sweat under her cotton skirt before she
reached behind and swatted his paw away. She didn’t even jog the bottle in her other hand.
‘Madoc,’ the Tamil logger, moaned, ‘keep your greedy hands off Kitty while I’m talking to her.’
‘Take no notice of the Welshman,’ Kitty chuckled. ‘I don’t.’
Madoc scooped up a good bottle of saké from beneath the counter, brushing the back of his wrist over one of her sturdy calves
as he did so, and headed out the other end, raising the flap of the counter to emerge among the drinkers.
‘Kitty could always complain to her boss,’ he joked over his shoulder.
‘But you’re her boss,’ the logger pointed out.
‘Exactly.’
‘I’ll tell my husband one of these days,’ Kitty threw after him, laughing. ‘Get him to thump you, Madoc.’
‘That will be interesting.’
The woman swivelled her eyes across to where Madoc was heading towards a table at the far end of the bar where three men in
clean white shirts were seated, and then back to him. For a moment their gaze snagged on each other, and she blinked a silent
warning to him.
Be careful
. He tipped her a nod, then sauntered over to the table where the three men were sitting. They were Japanese.
‘More saké, gentlemen?’ he suggested in English, and placed the bottle in the centre of the table. He ousted a nearby drinker
from a chair andhitched it up to join the quiet group of white shirts. ‘Enjoying your evening?’
‘
Arigato
, thank you, Madoc-san. It is good business here tonight.’
The one who spoke was the youngest of the three, and as Madoc knew from experience, the politest. He was the only one who
seemed capable of a smile. All three were lean and narrow-shouldered but looked fit, with smooth, unlined faces and hair cropped
short. The oldest, a man a little more than Madoc’s own age judging by the shadowy grey stubble on his head, had cold, implacable
eyes that rarely blinked. He spoke little. Madoc wasn’t sure whether it was because his English was poor or because he chose
not to communicate his thoughts. He suspected it was the latter. He offered them his cigarettes but they all declined with
a precise shake of the head, a small gesture of distaste before taking out their own cigarettes and lighting up. It was a
little routine they went through each time, so he should be used to it by now. But still it irked him.
‘You’ve heard, I’d guess?’ he said.
‘
Hai.
Yes.’ The polite one again.
The third one, a man who had the look of someone eager to get the moment over and done with, said, ‘That’s why we’re here,
Madoc-san.’ He nudged his glass nearer the bottle.
Madoc picked up the saké and poured each of them a drink. For the first time they showed a flicker of interest.
‘Down the
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