Free Bad Traffic by Simon Lewis

looked into a murky chasm framed by a flakey tongue and yellow teeth. Kevin made a hollow fist of his free hand and pumped it up and down before the open maw, miming what he would like Ding Ming to do.
    A picture of the task formed slowly in his mind, and his eyes widened and his mouth fell open with dismay. Ding Ming had no experience of that kind of thing, had never met anyone who’d admitted to those practices. Back home he’d heard whispers of a particular public toilet where the comrades, as they were called, those men who bafflingly and perversely liked the bodies of other men, gathered after dark. Fearing AIDS, he had avoided it, even in the daytime.
    The forgotten cigarette burned his fingers. The searing blast of pain jerked him up, and he carried on moving, shrugging free of Kevin’s embrace, and found the handle of the van and fumbled it open and fell out.
    He stood and, feeling terribly ashamed, he said, ‘Please, sorry,’ before a mist of panic wrapped him.
    He hardly knew what he was doing as he ran into the house and through it to the kitchen. His eyes found the back door, but it was boarded up and so were the windows. But, of course, he could not run away anyway: running away was stupid. He should not have run this far. He told himself to run straight back again, but his legs would not obey. He turned circles of distress and confusion.
    The other migrants watched him. They were holding bowls to their faces and shovelling rice into their mouths with chopsticks. One explained how they’d put some rice aside, though of course there hadn’t been much to begin with. Ding Ming looked dumbly at the bucket. He could not think about food. He opened his mouth to explain, but what could he say? He closed it again. These people would not help him. He was on his own.
    Considered in one way Kevin’s demand seemed a very small thing. It would not change him physically in any way, it would not hurt, it would only take a few minutes, and no one need ever know. Looked at another way, though, it seemed an enormity, bigger than the sky.
    Someone was coming. He tensed, already familiar with that clunky footfall. He supposed Kevin would ask him to come outside, perhaps beckoning with a curled finger, and the obscene act would begin. He summoned the image of his wife – nose like a mouse, eyes like a squirrel – and determined to face his fate squarely. Chewing his lip, he turned.
    Mister Kevin was in the doorway. But he did not look at Ding Ming and it was as if nothing had happened. He clapped his hands and called, ‘Right, let’s get you to work. Chop chop, monkeys.’

( 18
    Jian killed his ninth cigarette and lined the butt against the shop door behind him. He didn’t want a scattering over the pavement to give away his position.
    Not much had happened in the last couple of hours. The odd drunk had meandered past, a few couples, and an old lady’s dog had sniffed at him before being tugged away on its leash. The only interesting event had been the arrival of a dirty white van, driven by some fat guy. The hoodlum called Black Fort had come out of the Floating Lotus and sat inside. Some twenty minutes later he’d returned to the restaurant and the van had driven away. Pinched Asian faces had been briefly visible in the back.
    Jian had plenty of time to think and would rather he didn’t. Speculating or worrying wasn’t going to bring his daughter back and he didn’t have enough evidence to start making any useful conjectures. All he had was a bunch of suspicious characters who knew more than they were letting on. He itched to get his hands on one and start demanding answers.
    He rubbed aching knees. He wished he had a car to observe from, and steamed buns and a flask of tea would be most welcome. As would a fistful of painkillers. He lit cigarette ten, took a drag, and winced at the pain in his ribs.
    The restaurant door opened and Jian tensed. Four hoodlums staggered out. Two had arms around each other, and found