In case I forgot to mention it before, looks aren’t everything. And even if they were, it’d be a bit academic anyway if you couldn’t see, on account of both your eyes having been pulled out and rammed up your ears. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

With a fantastic effort, Vince managed to ungum his mouth. “Hey,” he said.

In case you’ve lost it, I’ll just write Jane’s phone number on your chest with this red-hot — oh, you can remember it? That’s fine, then. Just remember, all the world loves a lover.

Vince gurgled and closed his eyes; then opened them again. Made no difference.

Last point, before I go. If I were you, I’d lay off the cheese last thing at night. Gives you bad dreams. Cheerio.

There was an old fisherman and he had three sons. They were called Malik, Ibrahim and Asaf.

Malik was very brave. Often when the wind was blowing in from the Gulf and the waves were so high that they seemed to splash against the clouds, Malik would take the boat and come back with his nets bursting with big, fat fish. Eventually Malik passed all his exams and became a chartered surveyor.

Ibrahim was very wise. Many a time, when the fish refused to leave the bottom and everybody else’s nets were empty, Ibrahim would bring his boat to shore and his nets would be so heavy with fish that it took five men to lift them out. In due course, Ibrahim won a scholarship and qualified as an accountant.

But Asaf was always lazy and good-for-nothing, and while his father and brothers were out with the nets he would stay at home lying on his bed and dreaming of far-off lands and beautiful princesses. As a result, when his two brothers had both left home and his father came up lucky in a spot-the-infidel competition in the New Islamic Herald and retired, Asaf was left with nothing but a leaky old boat, a lot of split old nets and the prospect of a lifetime in the wholesale fish trade. Which served him, of course, bloody well right.

On one particular day, Asaf had been out since first light, and when evening came he still hadn’t caught a single fish. Sadly he looked out over the Gulf, towards the burnt-out oil rigs that stood out from the leeward shore, and sighed. As he did so, a little voice inside him seemed to say, “Throw out your net just once more, Asaf, and see what Providence may bring you!”

And why not? Asaf asked himself, and he flung the net out as far as he could throw it, and started to draw it in. As it came, he could feel how light it was; no fish again this time, he reflected sadly, isn’t that just my bloody luck?

He was just about to stow the net away and head for home when he saw, hidden in the corner of the net, a tiny jewelled fish no bigger than a roulette chip. He picked it up in his cupped hands and was on the point of throwing it back when something caught this attention. He checked himself, and looked down at the little tiny body squirming in his hands.

“Just a cotton-picking minute,” he said.

The fish kicked frantically, opening and shutting its round little mouth. Asaf peered down at it and frowned. Then, quick as a flash, he grabbed his thermos flash with his other hand, shook out the dregs of tea, filled it with seawater and dropped the fish into it.

“Hello,” he said.

The fish released a stream of bubbles, flicked its tail and darted down into the bottom of the flask. Asaf considered for a moment, then covered the neck of the flask with the flat of his hand and shook it up and down for a few seconds.

“You’re not a fish, are you?” he said.

The fish flopped round through 180 degrees and burped drunkenly. “Fair crack of the whip, sport,” it gurgled. “What d’you take me for, a flamin’ King Charles spaniel?” It froze, mouth open in a perfect O. “Ah, shit,” it added.

“Quite.”

“Let the cat out of the old tucker-bag there, I reckon,” the fish went on, hiding its face behind a fin. “All right, fair dos, I’m not a fish.”

“Sure?”

“Fair dinkum,” the fish replied. “Since you ask, I’m the Dragon King of the South-East, and if you’ve quite finished…”

Asaf stroked his chin. “A Dragon King,” he mused. “I read about your lot once. You grant wishes.”

The fish thrashed its fins irritably. “Look, mate,” it spluttered “get real, will you? If I could grant flamin’ wishes, my first wish’d be I wish I wasn’t stuck in this bastard jar. My second wish—”

“Other people’s wishes, I mean,” Asaf corrected. “The poor fisherman catches you, he takes pity on the poor little fish trapped in his net and throws it back, and next thing he knows he’s knee-deep in junk mail from the financial services boys. It’s a standard wish-fulfilment motif in Near Eastern oral tradition,” he added. “Usually three.”

“Three what?”

“Wishes,” Asaf replied, “for fulfilment. Now we’ll start off with a nicely balanced eight-figure portfolio made up of say fifty per cent gilt-edged government stocks, twenty-five per cent offshore convertible…”

The fish squirmed. “Sorry,” it said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No can do.” Fish can’t sweat, but the Dragon King was, by definition, not a fish. “Look, mate, if it was up to me it’d be no worries, straight up, Bob’s your uncle. But—”

“But?”

“Yeah,” replied the fish. “Dragon King of the South-East, remember? With responsibility for the Indian Ocean, southern sector.”

“You mean,” said the fisherman, “Australia?”

The fish nodded. That is to say, it moved up and down in the water, using its small rear fins as stabilisers. “And New Zealand,” it added, “not forgetting Tasmania. But excluding the Philippines. And where I come from, blokes don’t wish for the sort of thing you do.”

“They don’t?”

The fish shook its head; the same manoeuvre, but in reverse. “One, all the beer you can drink. Two, sitting in front of the TV watching the footie with a big bag of salt and vinegar crisps. Three, more beer. Interested?”

“Not particularly.” Asaf frowned. “In case you didn’t know, this is a Moslem country.”

“Is it? Jeez, mate, get me outa here quick. Talk about a fish out of water…”

“Quite.” Asaf lifted the flask and began to tilt it sideways towards the deck of the boat. “Are you sure that’s all you can do?” he said encouragingly. “I’ll bet you anything you like that if you really set your mind to it—”

“Watch what you’re flamin’ well doing with that…”

Asaf nodded, and restored the flask to the vertical. “What you need,” he said, “is more self-confidence. And I intend to give it to you. Inexhaustible wealth, now.” He started to count to ten.

“Just a minute.” The fish was cowering in the bottom of the flask, frantically feathering its tail-fin for maximum reverse thrust. “Um, will you take a cheque?”

“No.”

“Plastic?”

“No.”

“Then,” said the fish, “it looks like we got a problem here.”

“We have?” The flask inclined.

“Yes.”

Asaf shrugged. “Fair enough, then. What can you offer?” The fish oscillated for a moment. “How about,” it suggested, “a really deep bronze tan? You know, the outdoors look?”

“Don’t be stupid, I’m a fisherman.”

“Right, good point. I guess that also rules out a magic, self-righting surfboard.”

“Correct.”

“All right, all right.” The fish twisted itself at right angles and gnawed its fins. “What about stone-cold guaranteed success with the sheilas? Now I can’t say fairer than that.”

“Yes, you can. To take just one example, inexhaustible wealth.”

The fish wriggled. “Stone-cold guaranteed success with rich sheilas?”

Asaf nodded. “I think we’re getting warmer,” he said.

“Rich, good-looking sheilas?”

“Marginally warmer. Still some way to go, though.”

“Rich, good-looking sheilas who don’t talk all the flamin’ time?”

“Better,” Asaf conceded, “but I still think you’re missing the point somewhat. I think if you zeroed in on the rich part, rather than the sheilas aspect—”