The restaurant is a big, square room on the corner of the block at street level. There are some tables outside, crowding the pavement, and we sit there. It’s fully dark now and the sky is a lurid indigo. Across the road I can see a man in shirt, trousers and baseball cap handing out leaflets. I ask Bradley what he’s selling.
‘Probably mobile-phone contracts or broadband packages,’ he says.
‘I saw on the map there’s a big software park,’ I say.
‘That’s near where Dawn lives,’ Shona says. ‘It’s huge.’
‘Twenty per cent of the world’s computers are made in Chengdu,’ Bradley tells us.
‘Seriously?’ Tom says.
‘Yep.’
‘Our new masters,’ Tom says.
‘Is spicy food OK?’ Rosemary says. ‘Or we can ask for little spice?’
It would be handy to have some sort of rating system on the menus, sticks of dynamite, maybe, or little bonfires.
We’re at a picnic table with bench seats. Tom and Shona are forced to sit sideways, Tom at my left and Shona to my right, as their legs won’t fit underneath. In the centre of the table is a large hole and below it a Calor-gas canister. We agree to try the standard hotpot menu. Rosemary and Bradley chatter in Chinese and then Bradley orders.
It’s ten at night and the street is still busy. There is a stall opposite us, piled with cherries and lychees and – it takes me a moment to identify them – goldfish in bags. A group of teenagers sit on their scooters, playing with their phones. I watch a couple walking with a toddler. The child holds the string to a shiny gold balloon that bobs above her. She keeps glancing up at it as though she’s afraid it will fly away, or burst.
I’m so tired that I wonder if I could just make my apologies and leave. My back feels as though the vertebrae are fused together. My eyes are gritty. Around us the other diners – all Chinese – talk with raised voices to compete with the traffic and each other.
We are served small bowls of pale green tea and provided with chopsticks, bowls and spoons in a cellophane pack. There is a plastic box of tissues at either end of the table and small wastebaskets on the floor. I sip the tea. Beer arrives, and I drink some of that.
‘So, your scooter was nicked?’ Tom says to Shona.
‘Yes.’ She pulls a face.
‘Nightmare,’ Rosemary says.
‘Does it happen a lot?’ Tom says.
‘Yes,’ Shona says.
‘I wish someone would steal mine,’ Bradley jokes. ‘I fancy a new one. But there’s a garage at my place,’ he explains, ‘in the basement with a security guy. No one is going to mess with him.’
