Zhou lowered the basket of chillis onto the wooden bench at the bottom of the stairs. Several other similarly laden wicker baskets sat nearby. Behind the wall the restaurant buzzed with the sounds of late-night diners hoeing in to steaming bowls of Sichuan chilli chicken, double-fried pork and hot boiled dumplings. The restaurant smells of sesame oil and Sichuan pepper filtered in to mingle with the storeroom’s dry, garlicky air.

He wiped his hands on his whites and surveyed the storage space. The storeroom housed barrels of cooking oil, bottles of rice wine, jars of soybean paste, packets of Sichuan pepper, dried chilli, star anise and cinnamon – all the trappings of a typical Sichuan restaurant. But what had once been an ordered storeroom had recently become a jumble. Zhou couldn’t move an inch without stepping on a bundle of something. The visible segments of linoleum flooring were covered in a layer of dust and oil and chilli flakes. Even the ceiling rafters seemed to groan from the weight of hanging garlic nets. It wouldn’t be long until he’d be begging favours from the Uyghurs next door.

Zhou reached out and tested the weight of the shelves on the left side of the room. They were stacked high with bottles of soy and vinegar. He moved around to the end of the heavy wooden shelving structure and tentatively rocked it from side to side. When that didn’t yield results, he turned around and placed his buttocks on the flat side surface. He pushed hard, straining to hear sounds of movement. But there was nothing. Zhou stepped back, counted the bottles lining the shelves and calculated it would take a morning to unload. On the wall beside the far edge of the shelving structure, the hinges of an unframed door were visible. The doorway led to the storeroom of the adjoining Uyghur restaurant. The two restaurants had once belonged to the same family before being sold off as separate businesses some fifteen years ago. Zhou knew the space on the other side of that door hosted a storeroom the same size as his or larger. He figured it might again be time to put pressure on the neighbours, open that door for business.

Zhou felt the tingling sensation of his mobile phone vibrating against his leg. He fished the phone out of his pocket and answered without bothering to check the caller ID. There was only one person who liked to call him this time of night.

‘Wei?’

‘We’ve got a spicy one over here.’ The voice had a smothered quality, buried as it was beneath the chaos of electronic beats. But Zhou had heard enough to forget about his storage issues. The teacher hadn’t heeded his warning.

It was time to pay a visit out west.