But the city had not changed, the city had become bitter, bloated from greed, pestilence, rot. There was a poison, a vileness that had penetrated the skin of it. People no longer looked at each other on the streets, their eyes were sullen, jaded, there was unbridled anger, a hostility that was a contagion. There was cruelty, a disregard for manners, there was selfishness. People got into their cars and drove to work and back, single persons in luxury cars, clogging the roads. People honked to get past, flashed their lights to bully slower drivers, screamed and shouted at each other for parking spaces, dodged red lights, raced like madmen in the dead of night. Cut lines in queues, lied to their husbands and wives, all to get ahead, to feel happier, less lonely, less trapped, less afraid.

Money was the new god, friends who were already shallow became even more shallow, some became gods, some monsters, blinded by power, wealth, false security. Everything was black or white, there was no grey, there was an arrogance, and piteousness that assailed people.

“I don’t owe you shit, man!” screamed a teenage boy on a motorbike when he accidentally rammed into Omar’s car one night. “You’re fucking rich, you can afford it! Fuck off!” He was high.

Perhaps it was better that Alba was gone. She could have turned out in terrible ways. She could have turned into a spoilt, rich brat, selfish and sullen, she could have become a burden to him and to Del. The city was already corrupt, and perhaps it was going to stay that way.

Marina looked up from her manager’s table as her nine o’clock stumbled in through the heavy wooden doors. He was already drunk and was being held up by two giggling Chinese girls. Marina walked up to him, her long skirt swishing against her legs, “Good evening, Mr Chan, welcome back to Noble Inn. Always a pleasure to see you,” she chimed.

“Gimme my regular room,” he growled, “And my bottle.”

“Of course, follow me, please,” she replied. Marina led them through the long corridor to the private rooms. The two girls almost stumbled to the floor in their heels. The corridor was dark, lit only by low lamps on the walls, and all three almost tumbled to the floor until a pair of hands reached out to stop them, as if by magic.

Marina whispered softly, “Thank goodness you’re here, Hassan. Mr Chan is drunker than usual tonight.”

Hassan smiled back, “Yes, madam, all okay now,” and strode off, Mr Chan in tow.

Hassan was a tall, strapping Bangladeshi, the club’s resident bouncer who was more accustomed to hauling sacks of rice on his shoulders than slovenly, overweight men. But it was the eve of Chinese New Year, so he was more than prepared to have a sore back the following day. Tips were good this time of the year, so he was grateful. The two giggling girls tottered off into the dark corridor into the comfortable air-conditioned room where Mr Chan would snore to the singing of Cantonese pop songs. Hassan came out and straightened his black suit.