The Shortest Day, The Longest Night

A HOT wind blew. All about there was the chatter of the macaws. From somewhere upriver came the tom-tom rhythms of the natives. Mr Lenihan, in his khakis, raised an iced gin to cool his cheek. He lounged heroically in the seedy bar — the ceiling fans churned, the lizards raced the walls — and he took a smoky glance from the one-legged chanteuse as she rose to sing. A Frenchie, in her 40s, a woman with a past and a Gitane rasp. Mr Lenihan swayed gently as she sang. No regrets…

Someplace the likes of the Belgian Congo, he fancied, and he opened his eyes.

The hot wind was from the blow heaters mounted above the department store’s entrance. No tom-toms sounded from the river out there. It was an evil wind that lifted from the river; it took the skin off people, and his blow heaters drew the people in. Ah but not enough people. It was December, the last run to Christmas, and Mr Lenihan’s store was failing.