elaborate, we are by the bar, and I need to give the stocky man my full attention.
I gauge quickly that this man, strong and intimidating, as he eyes us and tries to work out whether he had seen us come in, doesn’t recognize us. At least not yet. I make a show of ordering.
‘What are you on, mate?’ I say animatedly to Jack, perching on a barstool.
‘Umm, lager,’ says Jack, a bit thrown by this interlude but following suit.
‘Hi mate,’ I say to the barman, trying my best to swing him into a false-sense of confidence. ‘It’s a lager for my friend, and for me... Tell me, is that baijiu up there in the barrels?’
He looks genuinely startled and I can tell I’ve caught him off guard good and proper. Truth is, I like new things and experiences, especially anything that will enrich me. It’s why I undertook parts of my training abroad. Expansion of the mind has always been something I’ve enjoyed, and trying new things while I’ve been away is one of them. I have a solid hunch that in those barrels is indeed baijiu - a very strong traditional Chinese liquor, about 110 proof. It is a drink that is increasing in popularity worldwide as China’s international powers and influence expands, and if all these barrels contain such a temptation, hanging above us is a liquid fortune.
‘Yes. Yes, it is,’ he responds in an authentic Manchester twang wrapped around a deep baritone.
‘Could I try some?’ I ask, cocking my eyes cheekily.
‘Of course,’ the man replies, keeping his eyes on me as he moves back down the bar. I see the door at the far end of the bar, presumably leading to the back room. The place we need to take a look in. The man flips the lager tap on and fills a taller than usual pint glass with crisp bubbling amber. He reaches down into the fridge for a chilled glass. I look back around the restaurant, to take in the employees. They appear mainly to be young girls and men - maybe international students, earning extra pennies. Nobody I would consider part of a security force for an underground criminal network. No - if this gang is on site, they are in that back room. And this barman will know either way.
I’m handed a small cold tumbler of clear fluid. I sniff it, and even it’s redolence burns the back of my throat.
‘That’s £8.90, mate,’ says the barman.
‘Can I set up a tab?’ I counter. The man measures me with his stare. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jack doing the same.
‘That depends on how long you were thinking of staying,’ the barman replies.
‘I’ll cut to the chase then,’ I bristle. ‘Sparkles Chu. What does that name mean to you?’
The man laughs heartily, launching his head back. It’s a dismissive gesture for sure, mocking me. I don’t like it one bit.
‘Is he here?’ I follow up.
The man smiles and takes to wiping down the bar. ‘Finish your drinks and be on your way,’ he says, leering arrogantly.
‘That’s difficult for us, considering we have come to kill him.’
The tone changes instantly, and the smirk is wiped from the barman’s face. He adopts a grimace that flickers, his eyes dancing with rage.
‘Why kill him?’ he growls. ‘What’s he done to you?’
I put my glass down and lean in with a glare of my own. ‘We have it on good authority that he killed somebody. Somebody he shouldn’t have killed. And we are here to even the score.’
The man thinks this through. Eventually, he lifts his t-shirt to expose his stomach - which is covered in small tattoos, each a variant on a theme. Little, crackling, point-edged sparks, about forty in total, spattering his torso. It appears we have been talking to Sparkles himself. At my fleeting recognition, he lowers his t-shirt, then walks over to the back wall. I stiffen, ready to reach for the gun in my waistband, but he merely reaches up and activates the wall mounted fire alarm. A bell sounds loudly, a continuous, droning note.
I glance behind me, as ordered chaos engulfs the
I gauge quickly that this man, strong and intimidating, as he eyes us and tries to work out whether he had seen us come in, doesn’t recognize us. At least not yet. I make a show of ordering.
‘What are you on, mate?’ I say animatedly to Jack, perching on a barstool.
‘Umm, lager,’ says Jack, a bit thrown by this interlude but following suit.
‘Hi mate,’ I say to the barman, trying my best to swing him into a false-sense of confidence. ‘It’s a lager for my friend, and for me... Tell me, is that baijiu up there in the barrels?’
He looks genuinely startled and I can tell I’ve caught him off guard good and proper. Truth is, I like new things and experiences, especially anything that will enrich me. It’s why I undertook parts of my training abroad. Expansion of the mind has always been something I’ve enjoyed, and trying new things while I’ve been away is one of them. I have a solid hunch that in those barrels is indeed baijiu - a very strong traditional Chinese liquor, about 110 proof. It is a drink that is increasing in popularity worldwide as China’s international powers and influence expands, and if all these barrels contain such a temptation, hanging above us is a liquid fortune.
‘Yes. Yes, it is,’ he responds in an authentic Manchester twang wrapped around a deep baritone.
‘Could I try some?’ I ask, cocking my eyes cheekily.
‘Of course,’ the man replies, keeping his eyes on me as he moves back down the bar. I see the door at the far end of the bar, presumably leading to the back room. The place we need to take a look in. The man flips the lager tap on and fills a taller than usual pint glass with crisp bubbling amber. He reaches down into the fridge for a chilled glass. I look back around the restaurant, to take in the employees. They appear mainly to be young girls and men - maybe international students, earning extra pennies. Nobody I would consider part of a security force for an underground criminal network. No - if this gang is on site, they are in that back room. And this barman will know either way.
I’m handed a small cold tumbler of clear fluid. I sniff it, and even it’s redolence burns the back of my throat.
‘That’s £8.90, mate,’ says the barman.
‘Can I set up a tab?’ I counter. The man measures me with his stare. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jack doing the same.
‘That depends on how long you were thinking of staying,’ the barman replies.
‘I’ll cut to the chase then,’ I bristle. ‘Sparkles Chu. What does that name mean to you?’
The man laughs heartily, launching his head back. It’s a dismissive gesture for sure, mocking me. I don’t like it one bit.
‘Is he here?’ I follow up.
The man smiles and takes to wiping down the bar. ‘Finish your drinks and be on your way,’ he says, leering arrogantly.
‘That’s difficult for us, considering we have come to kill him.’
The tone changes instantly, and the smirk is wiped from the barman’s face. He adopts a grimace that flickers, his eyes dancing with rage.
‘Why kill him?’ he growls. ‘What’s he done to you?’
I put my glass down and lean in with a glare of my own. ‘We have it on good authority that he killed somebody. Somebody he shouldn’t have killed. And we are here to even the score.’
The man thinks this through. Eventually, he lifts his t-shirt to expose his stomach - which is covered in small tattoos, each a variant on a theme. Little, crackling, point-edged sparks, about forty in total, spattering his torso. It appears we have been talking to Sparkles himself. At my fleeting recognition, he lowers his t-shirt, then walks over to the back wall. I stiffen, ready to reach for the gun in my waistband, but he merely reaches up and activates the wall mounted fire alarm. A bell sounds loudly, a continuous, droning note.
I glance behind me, as ordered chaos engulfs the
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