Cheung gulped. Discreetly wiped his brow with the handkerchief that was beginning to smell. He’d heard the screams coming from the basement of the Supreme Court Building these last nine months. He’d seen buckets of clear water being carried in. He’d seen buckets of flesh being carried out. He knew he was being threatened. To say what he really thought could place him in that basement within the hour.

Noma’s thin lips spread over his large mouth. “Come on now, my little Asian brother,” he said, though Cheung was clearly a decade older than him, if not more. “Why do you look so frightened? Do you think I would harm my dearest little brother, the best friend I have on this cursed island of white-man-loving sheep?”

“Of course not,” breathed Cheung, mustering the greatest cheer he could draw up from his queasy stomach.

“We’ll have a timeless Test match! However many days it takes! With lunch on the lawn! And tea! And cocktail hour! Won’t that be grand?”

“But who will be the players?” Cheung hadn’t seen any of his former masters since February when the last of them had been interned at Stanley or Sham Shui Po depending on whether they were civilian or military.

“We haven’t locked up all of those barmy bastards, you know,” said Noma. “There are a few at large. Medical men to take care of the sick. Bankers to liquidate the banks. A baker. They can all be one team. They are all staying at the Sun Wah Hotel, living among the prostitutes like the pimps they really are. We’ll put my officers on the other. Give them a break from the hard work of interrogation. What say?”

Cheung tried not to grimace. The old, snobby masters versus the new, murderous ones. Then he registered: timeless Test match. Never before had a timeless Test match been held at the Hong Kong Cricket Club. They were International Cricket Conference certified. That meant they played Twenty20 International. Test cricket was only for professionals, which meant only teams from England, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, India, and the West Indies. Timeless Test cricket … Cheung racked his brain for the rules. The old club president, Richard Hancock, had explained them to him a lifetime ago. A timeless Test meant four overs, but no time limit. The timeless Test matches he’d heard of had gone on for days. Theoretically they could go on for years, decades, centuries. If only this cricket match could go on forever and so put a stop to this mother-cursed war. At the very least, it would be a pause in the murder of civilians all over this ruined city. A blessed respite.

“Come on now. I’ll give you the honour of deciding who to put on the British team and who to put on the Japanese one.”