"Is that it?" I pointed at the bag.

"Yeah, but look." He handed it to me.

I removed a dirty towel wrapped around something heavy. Within the towel were a revolver and six bullets.

"See," said Thomas, annoyed.

"Is it loaded?" I held it gingerly, concerned it would go off.

"Don’t be ridiculous, of course not. What a bloody piece of shite."

He was right: streaks of rust ran along the barrel, and one of the wooden grips was loose, like a broken battery door on a cell phone or a walkman. It looked as if it would be equally dangerous to user and victim alike. "What happened to the automatic?" I said. "And there are only six bullets here."

"He says he’s getting a replacement."

"Did you pay him?"

"Of course, but he needs fifteen hundred more for something better – says guns are in short supply right now."

"I can’t believe you paid him, this thing’s a piece of shit! And some of these bullets are covered in crap." I held one up. It was green and corroded.

"He’ll be back, don’t worry. Can I have that other fifteen hundred?"

"No," I said. "I’ll give you the money when I see the gun."

Thomas’s pale eyes narrowed. For a second he looked as if he would protest, but then nodded and walked out. "He’ll be back soon," he said, closing the door.

I examined the gun. The cylinder rotated easily enough; after satisfying myself it wasn’t loaded, I pulled the barrel pin, broke it open and loaded five bullets – the sixth was too big for the chamber. Instead of closing it I flipped it, letting the bullets fall to the futon. I closed it again, checked to be doubly sure it wasn’t loaded, tucked it into my waistband, and stood. Outside, Thomas’s mobile ring; he began speaking excitedly, but I couldn’t hear the words. Never mind.

"Oh yeah?" I growled. "That what you fucking think? Wanna fuck with me now, bitch?" I whipped the gun out and pulled the trigger, which didn’t budge. Annoyed, I found the safety was on, so I flicked it off it and re-enacted the confrontation. Just as I was about to blow Peter Axewell’s balls off Thomas burst in.

"Fuck!" His hands leapt up. "Are you crazy? Put that thing away!"

"Dude! Sorry!" I dropped it.

"Never drop a bloody gun!" He snatched it up. "And the bloody safety’s off."

"It’s not loaded," I said nervously.

"You were about to blow my bloody bollocks off! How does this feel?" He pointed it at my face and pulled the trigger, and then again and again - click click click. I recoiled, shielding my face. " Dude!"

Ignoring his own advice, he tossed the gun at me; it hit my ribs and fell to the futon. "We’ve go to leave – fast!"

"But…"

"The cops are coming. Wrap the fucking gun." He dashed to the kitchen.

Hands trembling, I re-packed the gun and bullets. Thomas, returning, grabbed it and handed me two bottles of paint thinner. "One for each room," he said.

I doused the futon and TV and smashed the empty bottle against the wall. Thomas, meanwhile, shoveled drugs into two large backpacks - into one, I saw, went the gun. Second bottle in hand, I entered the other bedroom, but the sight of the prone figure on the floor froze me. "What about him?" I said.

"He’s dead already!"

"Jesus Christ! I can’t believe you’ve got me into this fucking mess. I…"

There was a loud knock on the front door. A man shouted something in Chinese.

Thomas seized the bottle and threw it against the bedroom’s far wall; it shattered in an spray of liquid and glass. "Take one of these bags and climb the ladder on the balcony."

The knocking grew louder. "Just a minute," Thomas called out. "I’m putting some clothes on!"

More knocking. "Police! Open door!"

I grabbed the backpack with the gun and went out to the balcony - really more of a concrete walkway sandwiched between 2 buildings. The wind drove the rain furiously in the narrow space and I was quickly soaked. I pulled the backpack on. It was surprisingly heavy, the straps were so tight my arms felt immediately numb, but there was no time for adjustments. Thomas had cut corners preparing the escape route: the ladder was not a solid, sturdy thing, but a creaky piece of shit cobbled together with thin planks and a minimum of nails. Nevertheless, it was tall: squinting up through the rain I could just make out its top.

I started climbing. Near the top a step broke under my foot. I held grimly on but the backpack’s weight pulled me backwards. It was only a short distance, but the fall felt it would last forever, and then the top of the ladder cracked against the other wall, and my feet dangled in space.

"Help! Help!"

"You bloody fuck wit!" yelled Thomas, manhandling the ladder back to the correct side. When it hit the wall I almost fell again, but I managed to keep climbing. At the top I stopped: the ladder ended several feet below the ledge.

"Go on! Go on!" Thomas shouted.

So I did. I raced up the last few rungs, lunged, seized the ledge and threw my arm over and in. As I dangled with my legs flailing, a wall of flame burst from the apartment. Silhouetted against it was Thomas just two rungs from the top. "Move you fuck wit!" My right foot found the top of the ladder, and with a great push I got my left leg over the ledge and scrambled to safety.

Unfortunately for Thomas, my final push sent the top of the ladder smashing back over to the far wall, putting him in the position he’d just helped me escape. Problem was, there was nobody below to help him, and flames licked his feet. "You fuck wit, Stratton!"

I looked about for something to pull the ladder back but found nothing. Panicking, Thomas shook it from leg to leg, but the weight of him and his backpack coupled with the flames below were too much for the ladder, which collapsed sideways, plunging him into the inferno. It seemed the fall did him in, because I heard no screams. I stared down through the flames at his buckled form. His head was twisted back at an impossible angle. I thought I saw it move, but realized it was only his pony tail catching fire.

Sirens shook me from my reverie, so I followed the narrow balcony, turned a corner, kept going, turned another corner, and came to a steel door, which was locked. I pulled and shoved and cursed but it wouldn’t budge. I backtracked to the other end of the balcony and found a six foot drop to a corrugated steel roof. I leapt, crashing painfully to my knees. I ran the length of the roof, clambered onto another roof top, crossed it, and found myself three stories above Third Street, just opposite the stairs to Bonham Road. Farther along Third was a parked police van, but no police - perhaps they were preoccupied with the fire. A door on this roof opened onto a dim staircase. I went down and threw open the front door just as a police motorcycle raced past. Then I was across the street and climbing the stairs to Bonham, slipping twice.

No cabs on Bonham. As I ran across a mini-bus nearly hit me, but swerved at the last instant. A short way up the small road leading to Robinson, asthma choking me, I looked back to see three cops run down Bonham and turn into the staircase to Third. Despite the agony in my lungs I kept climbing, climbing, dying for air, but too scared to stop and use my inhaler. I cast about desperately for cabs, but there were none. Robinson Road, University Heights, Conduit Road – still no taxis and every breath a struggle – and finally Poshan Road.

Poshan was deserted, save for, bizarrely enough, a stocky guy riding a unicycle well up ahead. Rain glinted in the street lights and wind rustled the wet trees. I slowed to a walk and used my inhaler - slippery in my hand because of the water - but I was so winded it did little to sooth my tortured lungs.

A car passed – a Rolls Royce. In the back sat a young Chinese couple; the man in a tuxedo, the woman in an evening gown. Perhaps they were off to a dinner, a show, or a party with free drinks, hot food, and the laughter of the rich. The woman smiled at something the man said, gems sparkled on her neck, and they were gone.

At the Poshan fire station I staggered up the stairs to the country park and started along the path snaking through the trees. It seemed safe for the moment so I collapsed on a bench. Some minutes later, after my wheezing was under control, I decided to look in the backpack. It was far too heavy to contain only drugs, I thought, because such a quantity would be worth millions.

There were, of course, lots of drugs. There were two sandwich bags full of pills (probably ecstasy), five or six bags half filled with white powder (coke? ketamine?), and the gun in its’ 7-11 bag. Below the contraband there were 3 dozen CDs, mostly British shit from the eighties. I threw them deep into the jungle, bemused I’d carried them halfway up the peak with cops in pursuit.

Miserable and wet, I continued slowly up the hill through the darkness and the rain.

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