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trusted to just keep on delivering the goods. They had known nothing but bounty, so there was something green about them. They were as alien as foreigners.
    His own generation had been blighted, scarred by the Cultural Revolution. In the seventies, Jian had been a Red Guard. Intent on building socialism, he’d got good at hitting people with a brick-filled satchel, as most of his energy had been taken up with fighting other Red Guards.
    He’d also put time in humiliating intellectuals, smashing ancient statuary and burning books. He’d smeared ink on the faces of teachers and paraded them with ‘cow demon’ and ‘snake spirit’ written on signs hung around their necks.
    He had loved and hated as directed and worshipped Mao without reservation. There’d been songs and passion and a sense of purpose. Then times had changed, and the lights he’d been brought up to live by had been shown to lead nowhere. Past struggles had been revealed as a tremendous waste of time, his idol Mao was an old fuck and a fraud. Well, he would not be fooled again. He believed in nothing now – there was only luck and money, and you’d better have one or the other.
    He took out a cigarette. It was still a disappointment to learn that 555 was not really English. What about Rolls-Royce , then, and Clarks shoes and gentleman culture?
    ‘You can’t smoke in here.’
    ‘What? This is a restaurant.’
    ‘Yes, and you can’t smoke in restaurants.’
    ‘What kind of country is this? The bus, I can understand. But a restaurant?’ He twirled the cigarette between his fingers and thought how pretty it looked before slotting it back in the pack. ‘You’re supposed to smoke after eating. It helps the digestion.’
    He looked round. The waitress’s face was a carefully composed blank, but her fingernails tapped nervously on the counter. The owner was making a call on a mobile. For a moment the men caught each other’s eyes and the owner shied away and turned his back. It was good to unnerve them. But it was not wise having civilians around to complicate things. He said, ‘I want you to go home, please.’
    ‘Oh. Okay.’ She was only discomfited for a moment. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing more I can help you with?’
    ‘Give me the number of your mobile. I may call tonight, possibly very late. Please keep your phone close.’
    As soon as she had gone, he missed her. Bright, sensible, a good citizen – he wished his daughter was more like that one, then guiltily ushered the thought away.
    The food was a disappointment. The meat was dry and tasteless, the vegetables chewy, and everything was smothered with starchy sauces. It was a gaudy parody of proper food. He ordered another Tsingtao to wash away the taste.
    A couple on the next table paid up and left, and now he was the last customer. He pretended not to notice, got a Beijing Youth Daily out of his case and read a story about a German footballer who might change clubs.
    The door opened and a Chinese man strolled in. Leather jacket, jeans, jade and gold jewellery – he looked like an antisocial element. Better dressed than the ones back home, with better manners maybe, but the same attitude. He idled to the counter. The waitress slipped through the door behind it and the old man came out, grinning and rubbing his hands.
    Jian watched out of the corner of his eye. They began to chat in Cantonese like the best of friends. But the old man’s smile was unnatural and his quickly moving eyes looked scared. The new arrival turned side-on and his eyes wandered . They wandered all the way over to Jian, and for a moment the men locked glances.
    The guy ambled over. He was chewing a match. He said around it, ‘I hear you’re looking for a girl.’

( 10
    He was tall and lean with delicate, almost girlish features. Hooded eyes that didn’t seem to blink as much as they should, sharp cheekbones, pale complexion, artfully tousled hair. He could have stepped out of a magazine. But there was a