As he lay in bed asleep, a cockroach ran up his bare arm and onto his shoulder. With a shudder he awoke, scooped the filthy creature off, and heard it scuttle away on the wooden floor.

He pushed himself up, and his eyes swept the room, the mildewed walls, the stained curtains, and a naked light bulb, its shade long since broken and abandoned. From the edge of his bed he stared out through the dirt speckled window over the roofs ofHong Kong. Instinctively he reached down and picked up the bottle of whisky, his only companion when he woke up each morning. He poured a little into the cracked glass by his bed, and quickly swallowed it.

Through the open window came the clatter from the cooked food stalls in the street below. He could hear the animated chatter of the families having their breakfast, perched on tiny wooden stools on the pavement.

The early heat, coupled with the hubbub from below, aggravated his headache. Not for the first time he realised alcohol so soon in the morning was stupid, especially before going into work. He’d let his cleaner go some weeks earlier to try and save on costs, and now the state of his apartment reflected how his life was deteriorating. The whisky had left a sour taste in his mouth, and he stood and slouched towards the kitchen.

As he glanced back into his bedroom, he flinched as he saw the filthy sheets on his bed. What time had he got home last night? And, good grief, he was still wearing his suit. He grabbed a bottle of milk from the refrigerator. Other than a can of beer and a few mouldy-looking vegetables, it was empty. He found a box of cereals in a cupboard, took an unwashed dirty bowl out of the sink, and dribbled some breakfast flakes into it. As he tilted the bottle over the bowl, a glob of congealed sour milk fell out. In fury, he threw the bottle against the kitchen wall where it shattered, sending shards scattering over the floor.

There was silence for a moment, until a shrill complaining Chinese voice from the adjoining flat, penetrated with ease the flimsy walls. Screaming obscenities at her relieved his tension and a shouting match erupted and continued until honour was appeased. The fact he understood little Cantonese, and she no English, seemingly irrelevant.

He shrugged and returned to his bedroom, undressed, and staggered into the bathroom. After a cursory toilet he donned his only other suit, which did not look as if it had been slept in, and some scuffed and worn shoes.

After slamming the front door behind him, he waited for the lift. When it came he entered and stared at himself in the mirror. God, he looked a mess. His headache still hammered behind his temples as he fought his daily battle with the ancient lift, never serviced in the two years he had lived here, which eventually stuttered its way down to the ground floor.

He snarled an acknowledgement at the Chinese watchman who was managing to scoop a vulgar mixture of rice and what looked like animal innards into his mouth, while at the same time pick his teeth with a grubby toothpick.

When he emerged into the Wanchai side street the oppressive heat hit him like a wet blanket. After an inquisitive stare, some nearby children resumed their morning chore of skilfully shovelling their breakfast rice into their mouths. Their parents continued eating and talking to each other, while giving orders and advice to the local food stall proprietor, and shouting greetings at neighbours and passers-by.

Squinting into the morning sun, he waved away the taxis parked nearby on the street, knowing he needed a walk to clear his head before appearing in the office. Ragged child beggars were everywhere and he passed a blind man who sat holding a jabbering monkey on a length of string, which was running up and down the pavement waving a small pewter cup towards every passer-by.

He stepped under a shop awning to try and dry his face a little with a sodden handkerchief. He was nearing Central, the business area of Hong Kong, and wealthy Westerners in safari suits sauntered leisurely down the road, while wide-eyed peasants from the country circled them, staring curiously. Drunken sailors, of all nationalities, after a heavy night in Wanchai, weaved along the street or sat retching in the gutters, as Chinese pedestrians glared at them in disdain.

He heard a grunt from behind him, turned and saw a coolie lean against the weight of his cart. The large wheels wobbled as he set off at a run, and he skipped out of the way when the man shouted something unintelligible at the top of his voice, his straw sandals slapping the concrete as he careered down the pavement. His ragged blue trousers, held up by a thin length of string, flapped at his skinny knees like sails in the breeze.

He followed, and despite himself, grinned at the havoc, as pedestrians ahead jumped for cover. Then his shoulders drooped as his spirits fell. He had never felt so lonely. How it had changed. When he had arrived he was full of enthusiasm, and soon began to fall in love with this wonderful city. With plenty of money, life as a bachelor was carefree, exciting and fun. He’d known he had to be careful about drinking, which had always been his weakness in London. However in that city he’d had sensible friends, but here in Hong Kong life was different, and there were no restraints.

Initially he had kept to bars and nightclubs. Life had been exhilarating, with a succession of young willing Chinese women eager to go to bed with him, albeit only for money. Then a Chinese whore had introduced him to a gambling club and soft drugs, and later heroin. It transpired she worked for gangsters and he soon found himself massively in debt to a triad organisation.

Sacked from his high paying stockbroker’s firm, his British public school accent had eventually found him a poorly paid job in a shipping company, where his employers reckoned an educated expatriate being paid a Chinese clerk’s salary was a rare bargain. With no relatives in the UK to fall back on, he’d sold nearly all his possessions to repay the triads, and his life had quickly spiralled out of control as his savings vanished.

He spent the day pushing papers around his desk, and retired as usual after work to a succession of seedy bars where he normally drank alone. He’d long since lost the few friends he used to have in the heady days when money was no problem, and he’d spent his evenings in expensive restaurants and smart clubs.

After eight pints of beer, barely soaked up by a revolting cheese sandwich, he staggered back towards Wanchai. He’d been propositioned by a number of whores in the bars, but had rejected them all, and alone and depressed he now regretted he hadn’t taken up one of their offers.

He drunkenly lurched into his apartment and threw himself into the only chair. During the day he’d remembered this was his twenty-first birthday, and here he was drunk and friendless. He gazed around the squalid room in despair, sank his head into his hands, and wept.

His doctor had prescribed sleeping pills and tranquillisers to get him through his depression, and deciding he needed a good night’s sleep he went and found them in the bathroom cabinet, then picked up the whisky bottle and glass by his bed.

Clutching the pills in his sweating hands he staggered into his kitchen. Looking down at the tablets he closed his eyes, and considered the unthinkable. His neighbour, as if aware of the nearby drama, chose that moment to play her part, and started a shrill tirade at her husband. A cockroach suddenly ran out of the sink and along the draining board beside his elbow.

With a shudder he filled the glass with whisky and took a handful of pills. He brought them to his mouth, and then hesitated.

In anger at his weakness, he threw the glass at the cockroach, dropped the pills on the floor, and rushed out the apartment. He must get away for a moment from the place which reminded him of the temptation of the drink, drugs and gambling that had almost destroyed him. Out to the streets where he needed to see the beggars, the drunken sailors, even the man with the monkey. Those people with far less than he, but who had the courage to face their miserable lives. A courage he was determined to find.

The lift was still on his floor, and he opened the door and threw himself in. With a crash his fourteen stone smashed into the back panels, the last straw for the frayed cable above, which snapped.

The first fleeting vision something was wrong was as the lift started to fall with the internal door still open. His brain, befuddled by drink, and confused by his mental trauma, was slow to absorb the shocking truth.

His coffin plummeted the eight floors to a rendezvous of death with the toothpick chewing watchman on the ground floor, foolishly balancing his chair against the wall next to the lift.