Hong Kong Belongers. Simon Barnes

      ‘Laid that one on you, did he? Didn’t tell you about shagging Chai, then?’

      ‘I thought she just came to clean up his flat.’

      ‘Oh, Alan. My dear Alan.’

      ‘Hong Kong will never return to China,’ Alan said, repeating King’s words in King’s voice. ‘You might as well expect the UK to have a female prime minister. These two things are simply impossible.’

      André laughed at this impersonation. ‘But where was I? Ah yes. Well, I couldn’t write two thousand words about King or anybody else. But if you want two thousand bucks, then I’ll raise it in no time. Or lose it in no time, but it doesn’t really worry me, because I know I’ll be able to make it up some other way. It’s my experience that most people only have one talent. Yours is journalism. Mine is money.’

      ‘The other night you said the same thing, but that your one talent in life was sailing.’

      André began to laugh again. ‘So it bloody well is. I can sail the arse off anyone.’

      ‘You’d be first in any capsizing race.’

      ‘I do regret that, Alan, I really do. But you have to get close to the wind, you know. I thought you’d like it.’

      Alan winced at the memory. ‘It wasn’t the closeness to the wind I minded. It was the closeness to the water.’

      ‘Well again, Alan, as I say, it’s not about taking chances, it’s about knowing the odds. I don’t capsize in races, when I’m playing different percentages.’

      ‘Charles wouldn’t let you capsize in a race.’

      ‘He does take it seriously, doesn’t he? Bit of a sobersides when it comes to sailing, old Charles. But no, in a race, I like to win, and so does Charles. You can capsize at home any time you want.’

      ‘If there’s a moral in that, I lost it somewhere. Give me another beer.’

      The ferry at last arrived at Tung Lung. Laughing, zigzagging a little, very happy with each other, they essayed the 176 steps. At one point, Alan fell up a few of them, but André hauled him to his feet.

      ‘Alan. Something to help you sleep?’

      ‘A wise precaution, André.’

      No light shone from the house. They entered André’s flat, which always surprised Alan by its austerity. There was not a picture on the wall, save a single poster of a catamaran in full sail towing a water-skier. The only furniture was a set of folding tables and chairs from China Products. A ghetto blaster the size of a suitcase provided music when required, which was often. André disappeared into his bedroom, and reappeared with a plastic bag. Delving into its contents, he began to roll a joint. Pure grass, no mixing with tobacco.

      ‘Hey,’ said Alan. ‘It’s illegal, that stuff.’

      ‘What are laws?’

      ‘The crystallised prejudices of the masses.’

      ‘Karl Marx?’

      ‘Goldfinger, actually.’

      ‘I like it.’

      ‘Isn’t that stuff hard to get here?’

      André did not reply, completing his work with great attention to the fine detail. He then lit the joint, bringing the flame to its tip three times to ensure a perfectly even burn. He drew twice before passing to Alan, and then spoke smokefully: ‘Not if you know what you are doing, my dear, like so many other things in life.’