Free Jalan Jalan by Mike Stoner Page A

fart.’
    â€˜It’s a bit early for booze, isn’t…’
    â€˜Shut up.’ She slips her dressing gown off her shoulders and arms and sits in front of me naked. ‘We’re not going anywhere today.’
    â€˜Well, OK then.’ I take a big swig, pull my T-shirt over my head while she wriggles my pants down my legs. We sit naked opposite each other, looking at the other’s body. Hers leaves me tongue-tied.
    I’m pushed onto my back and she straddles my thighs.
    â€˜Ow. Action Man. Under my bum.’ I raise my backside.
    She pulls him out and looks him in the eye.
    â€˜So, Mr Action Man, my boyfriend here likes you because of your gripping hands. Well, you may well have a firm grip, Mr Soldier, but I think mine is better.’ She slides him to safety under the bed and grabs hold of me to prove a point. Her grip is better. Much better. I close my eyes and the day is perfect and for once time doesn’t fly, because she is so slow with me and I’m so slow with her and every moment, every touch, every sensation, word and promise is individually gift-wrapped and put in a box marked Best Presents Ever. A box which slides around in one of the many rooms in my soul and sometimes knocks into the walls, reminding me it’s still there.

INSPECTION
AND APPROVAL
    I stand in front of a two-metre-high wall. A camera, mounted next to a large, solid metal gate, is pointed down at me. I check the address against the piece of paper that Pak gave me. It’s the right place. I go the gate and press the intercom, put my mouth next to the speaker and look at the camera.
    â€˜I’m the English teacher.’
    The gate slides open just enough to let me through. I enter and nearly do the same as Julie, turn around and walk back out. In front of me is a large Chinese man with some sort of gun slung over his shoulder. I have no idea what sort of a gun, only that it is big and long and it makes my sphincter contract.
    Stay calm, New Me. New Me is ‘don’t give a shit’, remember. New Me is after strange and exciting experiences, and this is one. Just smile and walk to the house.
    I smile and walk to the house. I say a house, it’s more of a mansion. All the ground-floor windows are shuttered up. There are another three men with similar weapons hanging off their shoulders, playing cards on the bonnet of a shining black Range Rover. Another armed man is walking around the side of the house looking up at the top of the wall as he goes. In front of the house is a large wired enclosure with three Alsatians imprisoned in it. They attack the mesh with teeth and slobber as soon as I pass. I step away to the right.
    Stay calm. These things don’t worry you. Nothing worries you. OK?
    Got it. Nothing worries me.
    One of the guards opens the polished solid-wood front door and shows me in. Once I’m in he goes back out, closing the door behind him. I stay where I am and take in the room before me. The house is all open plan and marble-tiled floors. Straight ahead is the kitchen area. Three Asian women with Jackie Onassis hairstyles, dressed in ‘60s miniskirts and breast-hugging roll-neck tops, are preparing ornate plates of food. Next to the kitchen area is a table which could seat sixteen at a sit-down meal, but which is now covered with a buffet of dishes I can’t make out from here by the door. The smell of garlic and chicken and saffron and a dozen herbs whose names I’ve never known fills the air.
    On the opposite side of the room, four near-middle-aged Chinese men sit in front of a large TV screen watching Manchester United, maybe, versus a team in blue. On the coffee table between the men is a pile of money. As I watch, one of the men throws another five notes onto the pile. He yells something at a blond player on the screen, who from here looks like the ever-present Mr Beckham.
    At the end of the room there is no internal wall, just three wide marble steps up