25
Ivan Kight paid the customs clerk and carefully tucked the receipt away in his wallet. He ventured outside the office and filled his lungs with the pungent intermingled smells of diesel, sweat, and fish putrefying under the stinking hot sun. He retrieved a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket, withdrew one and promptly struck a match to light it. The resulting draw of nicotine emitted a far nicer aroma in Ivan’s opinion. George and Scotty were waiting for him expectantly. He offered the pack to both of them but they shook their heads.
‘No thanks, never been a smoker,’ said George.
‘Suit yourselves.’ He shrugged.
‘So, what’s the story? Where’s our crate?’ asked Scotty.
Ivan stuffed the packet of cigarettes back into his pocket, drew his shoulders to his ears then le
