‘Stand back!’ Mann shouted. He turned to Ng. ‘Fuck! The bag looks fit to burst.’

‘There must be a hole in it – look at the flies!’ said Ng.

‘We better get there quick and stop that crowd touching it before it’s too …’

At that second, and fifteen metres out of Mann’s reach, one of the restaurant workers became ever more brave with a metal rod he’d found amid the rubble. He dug a little deeper into the stretched plastic than he intended. The black bag ripped from one end to the other and spewed up its rotting treasure in volcanic style. The restaurant worker screamed and jumped back several feet, where he stopped, frozen to the spot and staring wide-eyed as a wet curly-haired head, carried by a viscous stream of melted body fat and water, slid onto his foot.

Mann moved forward to get a better look: wide-jawed, big-mouthed, perfectly even teeth …

Shit! An American, that’s all we need!

Meanwhile, the pig lorry pulled noisily away and started its ascent of Monkey Mountain.

33

Man Po forced his lorry into first, slammed his foot onto the accelerator, and laughed out loud as the lorry shuddered, belched diesel, nearly stalled, then lurched forward to begin its long and slow ascent, leaving the commotion at the restaurant behind.

He liked making his meat deliveries on these fresh sunny days. Days when the forest buzzed and the birds sang. The cheeky monkeys ran alongside him, screeching from the sides of the road. He made faces at them, daring them to come within arm’s reach, but they didn’t. They were frightened of his deathly cargo. They screamed at the dead pigs in the back of the lorry, at the black throats gaping and trotters shuddering. They shrieked at the smell of death. But Man Po didn’t care. He laughed at the silly monkeys and stuck his large head further out the window at them. Dribbling from the corner of his mouth, he sucked the saliva back up spaghetti style before banging his hand on the side of the cab to scare the jittery creatures even more.

He loved his job because it allowed him to drive his lorry all through the countryside, visit all sorts of places, and talk to lots of pretty girls. But, most of all, Man Po loved it because of the pigs. He loved scratching the coarse hair between their ears, patting their broad rumps and touching their wet snouts. He made special trips to the pig farms to take them treats. He liked to watch them fight over the tasty morsels he brought them. He liked to watch them being killed. They squealed and squealed as they were forced into a pen, then trussed, ready for slaughter, and hung while their throats were cut. Man Po liked to stand close enough to be hit by the spray as the blood spurted from the pigs’ throats. He delighted in watching the last twitchings of the dying animal, its muscles keeping on moving long after it was dead. But his favourite thing of all was cutting up the carcass.

A look of panic came across his face as he remembered that he would have to look for a new job soon. He couldn’t bear to think about it. Sometimes it just popped into his head and he was forced to imagine it for a few minutes until he could chase the thought away. His brother said he mustn’t think about it. He mustn’t worry. It would all be all right. He would find something else. But he did worry. What would he be without the pigs?

Curse the owner for selling up. What did he expect Man Po to do? If he wasn’t a delivery man, if he couldn’t truss up the carcass, carry it on his strong back; if he couldn’t carefully, so skilfully, cut it up? What was he to be? But then Man Po smiled to himself and laughed out loud. His brother was right – he didn’t need to worry, Man Po was much more than that. He was a very important person, and one day people might find out just how important he really was, and the things he had done. He chuckled to himself. If only they knew …

He thought about the New World restaurant and reprimanded himself. He should have found out what it was about, all that commotion, all that fuss at the restaurant and that smell! He knew that smell all right. One of the fridges at work had packed up once, and no one had realised until it was stinking the place out. But he couldn’t find out what the fuss was about. He had wanted to, but he hadn’t been able to; that car had been in his way and he couldn’t turn in. Otherwise he would have done so. The restaurant workers knew him – he often delivered there – they would tell him what was going on.

Now he must make up a story ready for his return home. It would have to be a good one to entertain his old dad, Father Fong. He had time: he was in no hurry. Father Fong would be dozing in his chair right now, crouched over like a tortoise. He slept for hours every day waiting for his sons to come home. Then, when they did come back, Max would have to tell him of the streets he had travelled in his taxi – the fares who had sat in his cab – and Father Fong would imagine himself sat next to his son, driving along forgotten roads and half-remembered streets, transported back in time; back to the Hong Kong of his youth and the happy times when his first wife was alive. And Man Po would tell his father of the pigs: their funny habits, the slaughterhouse, the squealing, and about the people he met on his deliveries.

Father Fong was greedy for his stories. He eagerly awaited each instalment. Has she got the sack yet, the new one who’s related to the chef? Or, Does anyone know who the father of the quiet one’s baby is? But it took Man Po so long to tell his account of other people’s lives that his father became so excited and impatient that he pecked at Man Po – and then and then and then … – until he forced the gossip out of Man Po’s mouth like regurgitated food from a gull.

Max was still dozing when his brother came in that evening, making the most of his rest before his shift began. The two brothers shared a room. They slept in bunk beds in one of the bedrooms while their father slept alone in the other. But Max was so weary he felt nauseous and too tired to sleep properly. There was a brooding weight in the atmosphere, a heavy charge in the thick air. The summer was hanging on. Max wanted the ‘cool season’ more than most. The summer heat and the incessant rain drove him mad. The thunder and lightning made him agitated.

Today he felt that breathless claustrophobia as he lay in the heat and dust in an airless flat, trying to breathe in a small space, and he thought his lungs were about to collapse – and, something else – that his world was about to implode.

The chatter of the two men and the noisy canary, trying to make its small voice heard above everyone else’s, woke Max up from his fruitless, fitful nap. He lay on his bunk for a few minutes, straining to hear what the clamour was about. It would be the usual nonsense, he supposed. Man Po would be talking tittle-tattle, anything to punctuate the old man’s day with a little excitement. But then Max heard the mention of police cars and tape and crowds and commotion.

He waited by the door, until he heard the sound of Father Fong’s slippered feet shuffling away across the linoleum towards the kitchen to prepare his sons’ dinner. Then he emerged.

Man Po was sat on the edge of the sofa, his legs apart and his stomach hanging between them like a sumo wrestler’s. In front of him he had a collection of photos. It was Man Po’s hobby, photography. He spread the photos out onto the coffee table, picking them up and rearranging them – placing them in order. Max stood behind him, looking over the top of his brother’s misshapen head.

Man Po turned and grinned up at his brother as Max placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled forgivingly down at him. Max looked at the line of photos, laid edge to edge so neatly. He thought about the cupboard again and his stepmother’s cruelty and he smiled to himself. He smoothed his brother’s misshapen head. They had certainly made her pay for what she did to him, there was no doubting that.