Each of Nick Fairview’s muscular pumps swelled heads on the river bank, snug under their smartly feathered hats. A flock of gulls flew patterns over them and then were gone. Silk waistcoats erupted with glee while cotton skirts billowed in a horde of colours, a symphony to its conductor, awoken. Manchester’s octuple scull victory over their hosts at Salford bore a return to the university table’s top position. The team’s exhausted second-year captain mustered what energy he had left to acknowledge those near Lowry Bridge, whose unflinching cheers had drawn out their final, agonizing rowing sweeps to triumph.

“So close guys, good race!” he offered commiseratively to his rivals, fatigued. “And so fucking glad it wasn’t pissing it down! Nayang, it’s your shout bro, plan for tonight.”

      “My legs are cramping! Shit” grimaced Nayang Tanaka, cradling his numb feet. The river resisted harder on the others’ hands. But Nick was too pre-occupied with his audience and his hard-earned view. The quays were drenched in sunlight. Toddlers swung from railings on each side, cheeks smudged with ice cream, glinting, like raindrops spilled by a summer morn. Their little palms fused together, letting loose small grains of dirt and sand, and then pointed to saunterers along the sidewalks. With the trees, lush and lustrous, anchored a few feet away from the ramble of the water, sandwiching memorial benches, burnished in black, between them. Clothed in clots of paint, dried and chapped, that still sparkled; the elderly mouthed and nodded to each other on them, and then waved to him. He could see the river flow to the new city theatres debossed from it, where metal met glass, to museums and more bridges.

Then, like a jolt from a dream, Nick’s mind darted to Sam Platt’s pub, where the race had begun. His stomach ached, his thickening blood pushing a cold knot up to his sternum. His cool relief had jumped overboard upon a peep passed Nayang, to the back of the boat. There sat Max Simon, whose absence on the tram in from Manchester city centre had triggered the worst fight within the team under Nick’s leadership.

Max caught sight of him and scowled back, looking away.

      “Like I’m about to justify myself to any of you, it’s personal – I’m here now aren’t I?!”, Max had admonished before the race.

“You can justify to yourself getting kicked off the team then the next time you pull a stunt like that!” countered Jerry Colton.

 “You know what Jez – your righteous arse could take you places if anyone gave a flying shit what you thought around here. I’m not going anywhere…” he started, before the flare up was doused by their captain.

      Max had rowed through a sting in his heart. The boys and their coxswain Melina Ramone notched enviable wins in the year they had worked together, but theirs was a vista Max had pruned too far now his relationship with Dominique Jordan had sprouted. Or so they believed. The team didn’t try hiding their frustrations with him either, openly bemoaning a varsity team replacement to the rest of the athletics union. Seeing the cogs turning in their heads made Max so angry. And so it went, back and forth, as he waded towards the ovation at shore, teeth grinding as his belly grumbled.

      The bridge afforded visitors views onto the final stretch and with his oar resting flat, Nick looked up towards them and waved, then at the VIP marquee enclosure where Arishan Fernando squinted below his bronze, out-faced palm. Nine plates of apple and cranberry hog roast buns lay prepared, cushioned with small napkins on a table near the bridge.

“Best time yet, guys!” Arishan piped, a boyishly good-looking second year.  “Forty eight seconds – from the finish line to my buns! Pucker up!”

Nick winked at his best friend. Famished, the rowers dismounted onto the ramp to a litany of smiles and back pats, the top halves of their all-in-ones ripped apart, and they hurried to their food. No sooner had he grabbed his plate and half-heartedly thanked Arishan, Max stood encircled by Dominique and three of his Fallowfield housemates, who had been keeping well fed inside the tent. Pretending to take a toilet break, he left to join his girlfriend and housemates’ walk back to Sam Platt’s pub.     

      

***

As the crimson band of twilight declined, sidewalks began to empty and Salford’s lights flourished into life. A pale glow was cast on the mild air; foliage of trees twinkled and rattled as a sharp breeze took hold, a speck of foil rushed through the river to music of the waves. Much of Nick’s team had reached Manchester city centre by seven o’clock, a change of attire and an informal medal ceremony. Nine souls slouched together on a top deck of a bus headed for Owens Park, Fallowfield and it was there, curtained by the cold window vapour on which Melina had doodled a heart, that Arishan revealed he would be studying abroad for a semester.

“What – wait – where dude? … in February?” Nick began, his memory failing him.

“Wow you got on the programme?! Sick bro – my cousin’s in Massachusetts, I’ll let him know you’ll be there, show you the ropes…”

“Cheers Jez, I…”

      “Oh shit, the American semester programme?” Nick injected slowly, wiping the window. “Fuck, that’s after mid terms…”

                               “I mean it’s not North Carolina but fuck yeah, you’ll love it” Jez continued, excited.

“Yeah I can’t wait, kinda wish it was a whole year…” Arishan turned to Jez.

“…you gonna miss my food the most cupcake?” he winked.

 “I’ll have your lady’s pies for company; I’ll manage…just…” Jez replied.

“You’re so disgusting!” Melina muttered, and Jerry grinned.

 Under the tall silhouette of bulging brickwork she watched; cavernous bars and restaurants vibrantly lit at their feet to the left and the right, gaudily-clothed night creatures waving fluorescent batons towards exclusive clubs, blind to what they felt routine and trite. Nick looked on, smothered by developments; he drummed and squeezed on Arishan’s shoulders, staunching a feathery flutter mushrooming up his chest. “Max should really be here, the idiot,” he started.

      It could not have been two heartbeats later something materialized outside, Nick’s head started to throb, his face turned cold and gaunt until there was no time left for thought.

      “Man more reason to celebrate…” Nayang piped in. “What’s up, Nick? You…”

The bus convulsed violently as the driver slammed down the brake and the group lurched as if to projectile vomit.

      “What the heck? Can no one drive around here mate?” laughed Benjamin Samberg, a fresher from Australia, scrambling over his rucksack as he shook off the icy boost of adrenaline that kicked in. A child’s wails filled the lower deck, the passengers’ thoughts gathered, and more cars gathered, building traffic into Oxford Road ahead. Nick stared ten thousand yards, his seat swallowed down a cosmic void and the persistent honking became but a faint hum.

      “Looks like some broad mate…ran across the road…caused a right jam up front…” Feliciano shared, peering after the svelte, thirty-something stumbling into China Town, head low, snug fur coat grasped tighter around her chest.

      “I hate it when they keep horning, scaring everyone, what are they trying to prove?” Melina huffed, retrieving her sapphire and crystal earrings out of her chestnut locks to dangle once more.

      “We get it already! Ugh!” she said abruptly, brushing passed Feliciano and Arishan and heading down the stairs. “I’m still starving – going to Shanghai City Buffet – who’s with me? Nick? Nick?!”

      The horns were still being sounded as the last of the top deck vacated the bus.

***

Nestled in a corner of Platt’s quaint tavern, Max Simon announced that his medal had been collected for him, while his four friends relished the avid eavesdropping of their conversation by local dwellers. The degree of the Punters’ interest threatened to unravel Max’s irritation, for Max Simon now liked his popularity worn and ignored as he deemed appropriate, not yanked at the seams, sullied at the whims of such common purpose. That was how his new girlfriend had primed him, and her ironic pleasure at the increased interest this night miffed him more.

      Hot, salty gravy packed his gaping nostrils, searing his forehead. When damp, Max’s curly brown hair tufted to resemble a cauliflower. Awkward still, his cheeks lay shrivelled, his stubble looked unmanaged and unfitting of a thoroughbred; his stomach heaved and craved more food, but had to cope with red wine for nourishment and it stained his palate. And the locals kept staring. Distracted, he fidgeted with the condiments and swabbed the table with his sleeves.

      Their latest talking point, the incarceration of two rapists from a burger shop near Fongmay, surprised everyone when relayed on the news channel, and it was news to most that one man was still on the run. Mindy looked away; from when she was a toddler, the images of e-fits frightened her and the hollow, lifeless stare on screen proved too menacing for the anthropology student to keep watching. “They rarely make a difference anyway”, she thought.

“Those girls on the screen before, Jennifer and Zara, right? It’s insane.”

      The girls appeared ashen pale, shattered, solemn. One had lost sight in her right eye and her ear lobes were badly scarred. Surrounded by community members, some shouted and protested, vowing vengeance. It appeared new information wasn’t forthcoming; a free mini-coach that had taken students directly from University library to various halls was pulled from service.

      “No offence,” Dominique feigned in her usual prelude to a statement invidious, “but, THEY shouldn’t have left to Fongmay without rape alarms,” her cheekbones high and pronounced, cupping the rough, shrewd pierce of her eyes. Eventually, Mindy and Karl left and Dominique felt free to divulge she was out of cash and so Max would have to fund her. A dietary beverage and meal on order, he picked up their table marker and led passed the fireplace, passed the splashes of beanbags and wiry games controllers, to the lounge section of the pub near a narrow wooden stairway, in the hope of finding some privacy.

      They waited. Sat cross-legged, the ground cold and hard, Max finally burst out what had transpired. Gary Hemmington – his oldest flatmate – glowered in disbelief. The fire spat forth ash, heat and smoke, and everything began to swirl and shift so Max thought to make his disclosure clearer. Reaching into his inside chest pocket, he lifted a swipe key card, and clasped it between his fingers.

      “Grants full access to Stopford. All research. She said we’ll be given the go ahead soon…” came a whisper.

                                        “And WHEN is that meant to be exactly?” Gary blurted, startling Dominique.

      “Don’t know man, she said she’d be in touch. Something about a couple of photos, and…”

      “Yeah, right – of tulips and buttercups…” he frowned disdainfully to Dominique “… And this soon! Why don’t they just get a warrant, or how about, get her to do it herself?”

      “Maybe because we’d attract less attention? It’s all over after this…”

      Gary’s impatience grew. “Imagined yourself some contractually obligated superhero Max, huh? Marvellous. Look, dropping something off is one thing man, but trespassing? What if we get found out?” “Can’t she just have her best friend Dominique here do it?”

      “We’re all doing it!” squawked Dominique.

“Admit the stakes are higher here, Dom,” Max said calmly, “but we need more than one person obviously…”

      But Gary militated. “It feels like a trap. I wish I wasn’t with you guys that day. Fuck logistics. There’s no logic in this.. I want out… The whole thing stinks of disaster…”

      “Well, you can’t!” Dominique snapped. “You signed the bloody thing. She’ll track you down. So bottle your nerves, and strap on a pair.” Her brown, beady-eyed clarity on their mission began to arouse Max. “Whatever the agency’s up to, they’ve provided the cameras and there’s nothing to link it back to us, we just upload the pics and get out – no one will notice.”

      An encrypted email emerged promptly on Max’s inbox, and skimming through it, he shared.

 “It’s tonight. We do it as planned and voila, out the way and farewell fees…”

      Exhaling slowly, Gary studied Max, whose puppy dog eyes were wide, brows arched in a sheepish smile as if to egg them on in some fraternity dare. Even with a ban, the pub air was fraught with the tang of tobacco, and urinals; somehow the smell was accentuated when drunk and Gary’s throat began to tickle. “In and out”, Max repeated.

             “…You’re batshit, the pair of you,” he croaked, cornered in a puddle of someone else’s design.

The three looked on as the waiter arrived.

***

Two messages flashed on Kiaan Lupera’s phone as he bade the library farewell, one said Saaranya Fernando was where he was bound for, and the other, that Tyler and Zabia would meet him the next day for lunch, perhaps at International Society Café, where every hue roosted and his dearest aromas of vetiver and cinnamon hung ubiquitous on the walls and the fabric. He loved the Café. Academic teaching ended at one o’clock on Wednesdays, so training with a university club or society could follow. Football could wait. He even knew what dish he would order tomorrow.  A film of warm mist coated Kiaan’s flaxen face, moistened his brows and lashes as the pavement he followed passed his preferred retreats.

      At a traffic-less junction, he glanced both ways. The shadows of Stopford Building and the Church of the Holy Name cloaked the road he crossed like outstretched wings over their young. And the young, as Kiaan knew well, were restless. Student Union gigs were where they worshiped; braved spicy bites of late night kebabs. They paced streets to curry mile below luminous bulbs atop poles, into alleys and plazas and all-access clusters, imbued with nocturnal patterns of campus kinesis, those lazy chirps, overdue study, taurine, caffeine and the binge eat. How easy it was to forget that this interwoven nest sat blockaded by activists like Saaranya months before. An offensive on Gaza she had protested for three days. Kiaan had watched it all unfold in real time, secluded on his remarkable Whitworth Park twig. Valorous Saaranya, inured to the old ways, who belittled royals, took on Shiva’s moon, took after her father. It occurred to him that at the same time, she was struggling to get a boycott debate over the tragedy in Vanni reach quorum, and his confusion spiked at the ensuing theatre of realpolitik when she explained it to him afterwards.

      The bus was a no show. It took twenty-five minutes to walk to Trof’s in Fallowfield where Mindy and Karl were jamming on the upper floor. He couldn’t see Saaranya, but with the swathe of familiar faces and unfamiliar names before him, wasted no time engaging two boys he had recognised from lectures. Biomedical students. Tales of the rowers’ victories in Salford Quays spread far, and talk soon turned to one of them, a built first year by the name of Benjamin Bishop Samberg.

      “Yeah I heard his dad’s the new Prime Minister of Australia…” one of the boys said, nibbling on a doughnut. “Seems alright, keeps to himself in lectures mostly…”

      “Can’t say I’ve seen him around, what’s he reading?” asked Kiaan.

      “Genetics and Developmental Bio or something…”

          “Cool cool, not bad winning Two Cities in freshman year, where’s he at? Kiaan asked.

      “Fongmay I think. Or maybe OP. Yeah, I mean the guy seems solid, maybe only got into uni cause of his dad though, probably loaded…”

“…Yeah those fief-bred credentials on Bio off the backs of the aboriginals, probably a spoilt fuck too!” came a distant voice.

The three boys looked around to see Rob Shale shaking his head approaching from the outside deck. Kiaan pound hugged the ticket tout. 

      “Whatup homie, you not watching these two singing? Pretty great!”

                 “Nah playing poker with some cats outside,” Rob mouthed, “heading back out in a minute…”

A reshuffle began and Mindy nodded as her song’s end drew applause, surveilling the tips of Rob’s trim golden-brown hair tickle the ceiling as he pulled a chair towards the group and sat. Assured and ruggedly handsome, he had migrated from Toronto to Cambridge at fifteen, induced a pregnancy scare two years later and entered third year studying Geography at Manchester in September, a mandated social event organiser to the masses. Rob’s frame cut an arousing figure, having weathered the wear and tear of nature’s extremes in Canada, his limbs worthy of a Norse warrior, lean as if etched in bronze. A plop signalled a thick straw landing in Kiaan’s drink and Rob took a deep sip and pennies for his friend’s thoughts.

“That girl Saaranya…” he began.

      “Aha yeah aha…” Kiaan grinned.

“What’s her deal?”

       “Her deal? Whadya mean? You interested?…”

 “Hahaa c’mon Ki – you know, eh, with all the stuff she gets involved in, she staying out of trouble?”

      “She’s Saar man, chick doesn’t quit…”

He persisted. “Like you’ve gotta be careful, that’s all I’m saying, there are people asking around about her, don’t want you getting in trouble…”

      “Awww you worried about me?” Kiaan laughed, pinching Rob’s forearm.

Rob mock punched Kiaan’s cheek, and turned towards the outside deck. “I’m serious though; look I support them as much as the next person but couple guys were in here before asking about her and her brother, Border Agency or something. I told ‘em she was British so they musta got the wrong person, a pretty American jock type called Lupera I knew though and…”

      “You sure they weren’t lookin for you Maple?” Kiaan winked.

Rob grinned and stuck his middle finger up at Kiaan.

 “I’ll look into it bro, don’t sweat it, catch you later…”

Moustached with the cream of ale, Kiaan wiped his upper lip and blinked in reflection as Mindy and Karl approached – their set complete. A hearty embrace later, his smile faded, he headed to the bar and reached for his phone.

***

Every time Melina Ramone climbed to the doors of Shanghai City Buffet, it struck her how even casual deference to its guests was not customary for staff of her favourite restaurant, so her party remained puzzled as to why it was still her favourite. Perhaps it was the small mercies bestowed upon her purse. Maybe even a guarantee of a table. Or that no appetite was worth a soiree down the smoggy, incoherent corridors of nearby China Town. Yet, if her more keenly eyed friends were to be believed, it was because Shanghai City Buffet was where, many moons before, Melina Ramone had tasted her first kiss with the secret object of her affections, Jeremiah Drew Colton.

 “His face when she asked him a table for nine hahaa!” Jerry Colton drawled to Arishan in his native accent, recalling the curt, foreign restaurant owner five heads shorter than himself who received them. “What’s that guy’s problem? Thought he was gonna maul you. Needs to fuckin’ relax…”

       Melina dismissed her triumph with a shrug and turned pensive, trying to hide a gravy stain on her blouse. Flanked by Nick and Feliciano, growing ever aware of her petite frame, she avoided eye contact with the American and reached for the seaweed. Nayang Tanaka picked apart his chunks of fried fish and pickled ginger, Keshavan updated Andy on an assignment deadline as his plate invited a refill while Arishan straightened his napkin, flecked with crumbs of crust and rice, as he stabbed a prawn cracker with his face.

      “Seaweed’s nice”, she murmured, finally. “Could do with less salt.” Her lips hardly appeared, as if pastel coloured by the thinnest of brushes. “He’s probably not getting much custom, that’s why he’s always moody, besides I like it here, that waiter’s cute”.

      “Meh he’s alright, you could do better…”

“No custom? He certainly hires enough people” Arishan waffled.

It was Feliciano who hoisted a rowdy glass, the gluttonous mob were reined into compliance, hailing their victorious return to top form. Amid the devouring of flesh and the slice and clank of cutlery and crockery, Nick had not said a word. Until his muted, wistful withdrawal was retired by a curious Benjamin Samberg.

“Ah to be cool, calm and collected on a night like this! What’s up Fairview?”

“Nothing.”

“You feeling blue?” he implored, slightly reproachful.

“Not now Ben.”

“C’mon mate, lighten up, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I said NOT NOW!”

Nick’s chair screeched back, prepared to catch the napkin flung down on it. Melina ran towards the Gents’, supposing the brevity of her demeanour was the right antidote to her captain’s troubles. Ignoring a stern-faced waitress, she blasted her way in.

“What the fuck did you say to him, bro?” Jez asked.

“Nought, lost his baton. Think he’s just pissed about Max.”

Nick agitated near the hand dryer. “Nick? What’s going on with you? You’ve not said anything since…”

“I think I know who she was…”. He exhaled slowly.

“…Oh! Who was she Nick?!” Melina cut across dramatically, amused.

“The woman we almost ran over! I mean, the bus, earlier…”

“Right, right, well…she wasn’t hurt or”…

“Well, I know, but maybe that wouldn’t have been such a bad thing.”                              

“Umm…” Melina filled in, her green eyes blinking more rapidly, ”bit harsh but…”

Nick snapped. “You’re not listening to me Melina, are you?”

“You haven’t told me anything!”

“Argghh! Well let me speak! Hulme Hall common room, about a week and a half back, I saw Max and his housemate. They were with this woman; she was getting something from them… I think that was her tonight…”

Melina looked constipated. “Quite authoritative”, Nick continued. “I thought she was the halls’ sec, she definitely wasn’t dressed like tonight, or, I dunno, erm…”

“You high, Nick?”

“For fuck’s sake, Melina!”

“Well, what were you doing in Hulme Hall?” she asked.

“Huh? What does it matter?”

“Well you tell me – why were you there? Does Max know you know about this thing, whatever it is?” Melina’s cheeks reddened. “Why have you kept this from me this long?”

“If you must know, I was buyin’ weed, just a bit, for the house party,” Nick began, “And no, he doesn’t know.  I don’t even know what the fuck’s going on with him really…”

He trailed off.

“It got serious when she made them sign something, but I’ve never seen her before, thought they’d been caught with some weed and…What are you smiling about?”

“Just let it go Nick, been a long day, it all sounds like a storm in a teacup.”

But Nick carried on thinking out loud, trying to recollect. “They looked scared come to think of it, what did they call her? Scarlett or something…”

Melina was unconcerned. “Well whatever it is, was, whatever, whoever, it’s not your problem. When Max is ready to confide in us, we’ll take it from there, until then, stop sweating it! Hurry up, dinner’s getting cold…”

The door backed slightly into the corridor, but neither student managed a step through, their hearts had drained both limbs, terror flooded their faces. A familiar, accented gravel of a whisper carried towards them, headed to the kitchen.

“Yes Scarlett. Don’t worry, her brother’s here with his friends, doesn’t look like they’re going anywhere. I’ll make sure he’s here for you.”

“We’ve gotta get outta here”, Melina panted, only to find Nick wasn’t there.

“What the…”

The top window of the washroom had been unlatched to reveal an uncoiling black staircase behind the restaurant. “Here’s what you’re gonna do Melina…”