In fact he hadn’t eaten in the morning and this was his first meal of the day – breakfast and lunch rolled into a single deep-fried flour ball, which tasted stale in his mouth.

The flour must have been cooked a day earlier and re-heated in the morning but it didn’t bother him. Marius’ habit of skipping meals in the morning ensured hunger was his best sauce.

He recalled how he had become nauseous and ill after eating fish-flour at the same restaurant. But hygiene and food quality never bothered him. Whatever.

As Marius approached the market gate, a beaten up truck raced past missing him by inches. A mixed of dust and exhaust enveloped him. Oblivious to the grime clinging his perspiring face, he momentarily stopped in his tracks. His eyes closed and he held his breath for a beat.

Then he turned right and edged towards a round concrete slab and sat on it facing the market. He glanced around and reached for another flour ball and, as he did, spotted his chum Orim approaching an anonymous stranger.

He was someone Marius had never met before and never seen in his tight circle of clients. The stranger turned and Marius took in his appearance. He couldn’t place the country of origin but he looked like someone from India, Bangladesh or somewhere round there.

The man was slender, almost sickly. He had a week’s stubble on his chin. But what captured Marius’ attention most was the salt and pepper hair. Although the stranger seemed anorexic, just skin and bone, he had a stylish hair cut - choppy fringes blending in with fine locks. Well oiled, too, it shone in the bright sun.

Orim conversed briefly with the stranger. The Indian said something and Marius nodded. Orim then turned towards the swamped bus-stop circling the crowd and casually approaching Marius from his flank. Orim stepped over and sat beside Marius on the hot concrete.

‘How many cigarettes do have on you now,’ Orim asked, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.  Marius understood exactly what he was asking.

‘Just a packet and a dozen loose’, Marius responded through a mouthful of flour. ‘I got my complete quota for the day and I’m not getting any more,’ he stated with obvious contempt for Orim.

‘Relax Marius you’ve been doing this all right so far. You’re professional,’ Orim broke into a smile.

‘Shut up Orim, I’m not cut out for this shit. I’ll doing it until I find a way out of this hell hole. I might be done soon so you’ll have the chance to get a real prick to sell cannabis disguised as cigarettes.’

Orim brushed his comment aside. ‘The man I just talked to wants a whole packet. He needs them now and I’m meeting him again in the Tiang Shop to deliver.

‘See that Pajero double-parked near a blue cab over there,’ Orim pointed across the street. ‘That’s his; he drove in a while ago to find a contact who’ apparently been out of the business for a while. His contact found me. His name is Azim or Aziz or something like that. It’s an alias.’

‘Did you tell him that four of the cigarettes, the ones on top, are genuine – camouflage for the tinkered ones?’ asked Marius.

‘Of course.’

Marius reached into the bag slung across his shoulder and came out with a red 25s Pall Mall packet. It looked new but its tamper-proof plastic wrapper had been removed. Orim opened it and glanced at the contents.

Satisfied that all was complete, he closed the pack and dunked it in his shirt pocket like a big shot with lots of money to throw around for cigarettes.

‘He’s thin as a stick,’ said Marius.

‘The guy’s probably got the big C,” responded Orim. “His contact said he chain-smokes and uses cannabis in seclusion to treat a medical condition.

‘If I get caught I can say I was selling medicine to an Indian crack-head.’

Both Orim and Marius croaked with laughter and Orim stood to leave.

‘If you’re lucky you’ll get a tip,’ Marius said after him.

‘Don’t count on it,’ Orim shot back without turning as he crossed the street.