Fairman strode out and shut the door quietly. As his footsteps faded away, Omar swivelled his chair round to take in the view. He particularly liked it at night. From where they were, the skyline gleamed and glittered and the promise of a new country beckoned. But for Omar, it also spelt uncertainty. Malaysia had been governed by a ruthless and powerful man for 22 years. Things had a pattern, a place. Order had been created and carefully, albeit ruthlessly applied. People only knew fear, and fear had worked well. Too well. A new Prime Minister spoke of things unknown, but there was a glimmer of hope, a glimmer of a more effective democracy, and a chance of possible freedom.

“Freedom,” Omar muttered under his breath. “Whatever the fuck that means.”

He poured himself another whisky and as it swirled around in his mouth, he thought of the millions that they stood to gain from the Nigerians, the ongoing contracts in Vietnam and Kenya and he suddenly felt invincible. A hunger appeared like a simmering ball in the pit of his belly and that surge of promise beckoned, the world beckoned, the knowledge of profit beckoned. He, Omar Tunku Malik, was on a path that he never ever thought he would be on, and that, was the promise of freedom.

Marina called him Mr Ferrari; he was undoubtedly unhappily married and very, very rich. He was her most regular client and had almost single-handedly sponsored her new breast enlargements, and she knew that he cared for her. It was almost like love, she thought. He cares for me, he looks after me, he SMS-es me to make sure I eat every day, he wants to know who I fuck and how much I make, and he is okay with all of that.

Marina had come to taste the good life. She had a credit card, she had seen the insides of five-star hotels, she had come to like the taste of champagne, she had come to like fucking him and she had come to care for him. He was not the man of her dreams, by any means, but he was kind, considerate and generous to a fault. He had once offered to pay for an apartment, but Marina had said “No, I want to be able to afford my own place.” She had registered the Mak Nyah Association of Malaysia at the Registrar of Societies—“Leave it to me,” he said, and assured her that it would come to be.