long time.’ Jojo smiled and nodded his head wisely. ‘Remember that time you were suicidal over a woman? What was she called?’
Jojo screwed up his face, trying to recall her name.
‘Janie…’ Mann said. ‘That was it. Lovely Janey with the husband and four kids she never tol’ you about. Then there was the time the local police shut you down when you didn’t pay them enough. Never seen you so angry. But the worst was when I came here and there was nothing left. Typhoon Thelma took everything. You were devastated—remember?’
Jojo closed his eyes, put his hand on his chest and sighed.
‘Dat storm was one I never forget…ah?’
‘But, do you know what? In all the years I’ve been coming here, this is the first time I’ve ever seen you scared.’
Jojo wiped the sweat from his eyes with his shirt sleeve. He was smiling but he didn’t look like a happy man.
‘Listen to me, old friend.’ Mann held his gaze. ‘I know the Chinaman came through here. I followed him from Hong Kong. Tell me what he wanted.’
‘You go-in’ to get me killed, bro.’ Jojo looked around, smiling nervously. The boxing was still going on. The others were still staring at their drinks—waiting to find ‘happy hour’. Jojo turned his back on the bar and looked hard at Mann. ‘I in enough trouble.’
‘Tell me. I might be able to help.’
‘The Chinaman come here ten days ago. He rent my house…ree-al nice place I have bee-hind here.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Not as tall as you, but tall for a Chinaman—goatee beard, bald, mean-faced, thirty-five, maybe?’
‘That’s the man. Anyone else?’
‘Come wid five other Chinese—his monkeys. Same time as he arrive come four white guys. They stay up at d end of d beach. Come wid whores from Angeles.’
‘What did he want—the Chinaman?’
‘He want me to sell ’im some-thin’, some-thin’ I own.’
‘What?’
‘Biz-nesses in Mindanao—down south.’
‘What kind of businesses?’
‘A bar, a small hotel. Nuttin’ big. Nice place, on d coast.’
‘What did you agree to?’
‘Not agree nuttin’. He said he be back. He left d white guys here. Bin here a week. Deese are bad fuckers,’ he whispered. ‘One of d whores is beat up nasty. Dey got money, plenty, pay off police. I see dem talking wid dem—like old friends.’ Jojo shrugged and shook his head. ‘I tell you, bro, I go-in’ to be in big trouble when dat Chinaman come back.’
‘Are they here tonight—the white guys?’
Jojo signalled for Mann to wait whilst he walked out of the bar and across the narrow sandy lane that ran the length of the mile-long ‘white sugar beach’. Halfway across the lane he started to sway to the tune of ‘No Woman, No Cry’ and began dancing with three of his sons who touted for his bar along the lane. As Jojo swung his hips to the rhythm, Rex on the drum box got a nudge from the singer. Rex opened his eyes, grinned, stopped rocking his dreadlocks and began drumming faster. Jojo shimmied his old hips as fast as they would go to keep up with the ever-increasing tempo, but he was forced to abandon the task and staggered back into the bar, amidst laughter and applause from the beach.
He clutched his hand to his chest as if he were about to have a heart attack. ‘Baztads,’ he laughed, talking to the men watching the fight and rolling his eyes in the direction of the beach. ‘You give dem your name n they treat you like shit—kids.’ He took a beer from the barman and waited for the fuss to subside before making his way back over to Mann, fanning his face with a bar mat.
‘They here?’
Jojo leaned in. ‘One of dem is here…sat left of d stage…wid a young Filipina…big white guy…peak cap.’ Jojo turned away from Mann and leaned his back against the bar, pretending to be interested in the boxing match, which had reached its fifth round. He kept his eyes diverted from Mann and kept smiling. ‘A-nudder ting,’ he whispered. ‘Dat old white guy’s got some-thin hard in his pocket an it ain’t his big old cock. You go-in’ to spoil my business you make trouble here, Johnny.’
‘Relax, old friend. There’ll be no trouble.’
Mann picked up his drink and walked across the lane. He sat on the end of a table of Dutch tourists, directly behind the man. It was hard to see his face, hidden beneath the peak cap, just the candlelight and crescent moon to help. But Mann could see that he was big, strong and weathered, ex-military, with tattoos covering his upper arms. He wore khaki shorts and a sleeveless shirt. He chain-smoked whilst texting fast, impatiently. The young Filipina sat a little apart from him, waiting nervously by his side. The text messages came back every few minutes—no jingle from the phone, just a light and a vibration. His leg twitched with adrenalin as he read a new text. He called a number, said a few words, then finished the call abruptly and slammed the phone down onto the table. He pulled off the peak cap and rubbed his sweaty head. His silver ‘short back and sides’ was indented with the outline of the cap. Mann saw his face, mottled and puffy, dominated by bulbous eyes that made him look what he was—mad angry. Mann recognised him straight away. It was the man they called the Colonel—one of the biggest traffickers of women and children in the Philippines.
Hertfordshire
Amy Tang’s oversized bag banged against her short, stumpy legs as she ran full pelt, arms flailing, down the long school corridor. It was Saturday afternoon and all the pupils had finished morning lessons and were dispersed at either sports matches or common rooms to enjoy the start of the weekend. But not Amy: she was getting a weekend pass. She was getting out. When the exeat list had been read out the previous evening, Amy had not been listening—she never expected her name to be on it. The teacher had had to repeat it: authorized exeat…friend of her father…shopping… She didn’t hear the whole message because she was shrieking so loudly.
Now she ran down the corridor, even though it was against school rules to do so. She didn’t care. She was twelve and she had been at boarding school since she was four, and this was the first time she had ever had an exeat. Other girls went to relatives for the weekend but Amy didn’t have any family in the UK. She had plenty in Hong Kong—on her mother’s side—but she didn’t know much about her father aside from the fact that he was rich and powerful and that he didn’t live with them and that he wouldn’t marry her mother. Sometimes Amy thought he didn’t care about her or her mother at all. But now, finally, there was proof that he did—he had organised an exeat for her, the email said. She was going to be taken to Alton Towers, to the funfair there. Then she was being taken out for dinner and shopping. The other girls were so jealous. For once it was Amy who was going to have the best weekend.
She hadn’t had a difficult time choosing her outfit—she only had one. Her mother had sent it over from Hong Kong: pink skirt and
