The China Syndrome

The Translator nudged the camera in close between his bare buttocks as he sprawled limply on the bed, catching every last dribble of blood and semen that trickled from his anus. As the camera panned over him, capturing the trails of drying spunk on his chest and face and in his tangled blond hair, he moaned softly, his fingers curled tightly around the wad of notes they had given him.

Mr Chen rose and washed at the basin and put his clothes on. The Translator did likewise and packed away their video-camera. Neither man spoke to him, even though he lay upon the bed and watched them move around him like ghosts. When they finally left him alone, he curled up on his side and wept briefly until John came back into the room and told him, in his brisk, no-nonsense way, to put his clothes back on.

As he dressed, he thrust the ten, crumpled notes deep into the pocket of his baggy jeans. Only then did he let go.

When they left the building, his pale face was expressionless; his green eyes as cold as ice.