Priya Pooni was my friend. I suppose I could call it that.

She lived next-door-but-one when I was a young teenager. At the time she was in pigtails at junior school, with a couple of years of age and several light years of cultural distance between us.

We occasionally chatted on the bus, not getting acquainted until I had left school and the age difference was less frowned upon by my peers. She was an individual to be reckoned with even when young. I have never known her to take any shit from anyone, least of all me.

She made the teachers' lives hard and her classmates' existence even harder. She was one of the few Asian kids in the school at the time and I always remember her attracting the attention of the playground bully, Darren Wills. He would wait for her at break times and play to the crowds by dancing around her, calling names and pushing her about.

Young Priya had sought my council while we travelled home one afternoon. I recall saying that unless you stand up to bullies, they have a habit of owning you forever. Wise words from a twelve-year-old, right?

The following lunchtime Darren had attempted a repeat of his usual performance. This time, Priya, tiny and stick-thin, with her hair plaited into obsidian pigtails, leaped on the smirking idiot.

She wrestled him to the ground, gouged at his eyes and proceeded to claw and kick the shit out of him. His smugness vanished under a hail of blows and scratches that lasted until the teacher on playground duty had arrived on the scene and lifted Priya bodily from him, still flailing and trying to land more hits on Darren's cowering form.

She was a ten-year-old girl tackling a cowardly prick twice her size and I had always loved her a little from that day.

Priya lived alone now; disowned by her family after an incident surrounding an illicit boyfriend. It all happened just after I had graduated and moved away from our childhood street. She had turned up on my doorstep with a suitcase in her hand, the warmth of a recent blow on her cheek and a coldness in her eyes.

When I asked her what she would do without the support of her family she had merely said "Fuck 'em."

She stayed for two weeks until she got a job, then moved on. She had grown to be a breathtakingly beautiful young woman and it had been an awkward time that I tried to forget. I had always felt for her, but her firm rejections had made progress an obvious dead end.

We had remained friends through the years, and her less-than-genteel manner made her company enjoyable. Priya, now in her late twenties, is a very intelligent woman and fluent in at least five languages, including the major tongues used in the Indian subcontinent. She makes a considerable living by buying the rights to Bollywood films straight from the major studios and distributing them to cinemas around the West Midlands. She had started selling out municipal halls and art houses. After a few years of typical Priya tenacity, she now dealt with multiplexes.

It was a somewhat cold and bleak morning. The sky lay heavily above me; a sheet of unbroken grey like a dented watering can. I knocked on Priya's door and waited, shifting the weight from the balls of my feet. I bounced a little to keep warm.

Priya answered the door, and I was struck, as ever, by her looks.

She had big, wide-set teardrop shaped eyes, beautifully china white with intense liquid brown irises. Her frame was smallish compared to me, maybe 5'4", but her body was firm and trim. Her curves were concealed by baggy scarlet silken trousers and a matching wrap that covered her upper body and swept up and over her hair, a jet-black strand of which hung wetly across her face.

There was a flush of blood in her cheeks, and she was slightly out of breath when she spoke.

"Oh, it's you."

That's nice, I thought. No 'Hello'.

"Hiya, Priya," I said as she turned and walked back down her hall.

She unwrapped the silken shawl from her torso and dropped it over the banister at the bottom of the stairs. Underneath she wore only a broad Lycra sports bra and there were dark wet patches under the arms and below the curve of each breast. Her torso and shoulders were both speckled with fine beads of sweat that gathered like pearls on her coffee coloured skin.

"Stop drooling and come in, Satchmo," she said with her back to me as she made her way back inside.

Maybe she had heard my sharp intake of breath; she always knew how to cut me down with a swift verbal cold shower.

I followed her into the warmth of her house, past the gaudy Bollywood posters that lined the walls, and into the lounge. She had strapped some padded gloves on and was working on a light speed bag that hung in the centre of the room. A TV in the corner blared a massive and involved routine from a Bollywood film. She skipped around the bag hitting it firmly and rhythmically with a flurry of jabs and hooks, letting off a fine spray of sweat that fell across the screen.

Priya was without doubt beautiful; she bobbed and weaved with a fascinating grace. I found myself envious of the target for the attention it received, if not the beating it took.

"So, Satch, to what do I owe the honour?" thump... thump... thump-thump-thump. The bag spun as she connected with a combination.

"I could use a little help on one of my cases, Priya," I replied.

"Huh?" she murmured. I got the impression she wasn't really listening.

"Yeah, I've got a little communication difficulty," I said, stepping to the side as the light bag swung past me with Priya's gloved fists following it closely.

"Ah, are they old or uncooperative?" Priya asked as she danced backwards, then in under an imaginary guard, hitting the leather with a series of blows that would have rendered an unsuspecting person unconscious.

"Possibly both," I replied, watching the muscles in her arms pop up and down. I was finding her flat stomach, with its tiny silver belly button ring twirling as she wove, quite mesmeric.

"And what do I get out of this?" she asked, without looking at me.

"Dinner?" I said. She caught the bag with both hands and turned towards me, breathing hard.

"In your dreams, Satchmo. You can give me a lift to B&Q, I need some paint for the bathroom," she responded with a dazzling smile. Priya still couldn't drive. She had, to my certain knowledge, ended the career of at least one driving instructor in her efforts to learn.

"For you darling, anything," I bowed with mock seriousness.

She smiled. She might reject my advances, but that didn't mean she resented them.

"OK then, but first make yourself useful," she said, gesturing to some handheld foam sparring pads.

I had boxed a little in my youth, until the prospect of being struck with any serious intent deterred me from any further pursuit of it as a pastime. Still, my technique was reasonable even if I was disinclined to actually hit anyone.

I slipped my hands into the glove-like attachments and raised them in a traditional high guard.

Bouncing lightly on my toes, I opened out one of the pads and Priya lashed a jab into it like lightning and it landed with a satisfying thud. I drew it back into my stance then began to open the foam rectangles at different heights and positions, encouraging her to throw some combinations. She connected smartly with them all.

After a minute or so I noticed that she was not holding her own guard when she came forward. Priya was jumping too aggressively into the attack, opening herself to a counter. I feinted high, she lunged for the pad leaving herself exposed, I stepped inside her punch and tapped her gently on the side of the head with the foam in a left hook motion.

I hardly had the time to open my mouth before she had swung her right glove up under my guard in a blur and caught me squarely on the chin with a counter punch, dumping me unceremoniously onto the sofa.

"Oh, sorry," she said, bending over me with concern. "I got a little carried away."

"I was just demonstrating your defensive weakness," I murmured, rubbing the soreness out of my face.

She laughed, a tinkling noise like the fond memory of a summer stream, and threw me a towel.

"Don't worry, Tyson, I'll get you some peas." She turned and went into the kitchen, and I shamelessly watched the roll of her behind.

"Aren't you going to kiss it better?" I called after her.

"Don't push your luck, Satchmo."

She returned with a large grey sweatshirt on, her shoulder-length hair tumbled damply around the collar. She threw me a small bag of frozen peas.

"Give me ten minutes in the shower, then I'm all yours," she saw my face light up. "In a business sense, of course."

"Better than nothing," I muttered under my breath.

*

When we pulled up outside 56 Windwood Close, the slate grey sky had started to deliver a fine drizzle.

I leaned over and ferreted among the gear on my back seat, looking for a pull-on jacket I kept in there somewhere. Priya jumped out and took a deep breath, arching her back as she inhaled in what I thought a vaguely sexual manner. In point of fact, I found most things she did vaguely sexual, so I'm not an especially reliable witness.

"Fucking Hell Satchmo, your car smells like the carcass of a rotting goat," she exclaimed, her upturned nose wrinkled a little, like a child tasting a food it does not approve of.

"Yeah, it's my kit," I replied, embarrassed. I had an assortment of trainers, shorts, T-shirts and other odds and ends that I wore to the gym scattered throughout my car.

"I suggest you napalm the lot," Priya sniffed.

I led her up to the door where she stood by my side, the drizzle falling on her still shower-wet hair, giving it a blue-black sheen like a raven's wing.

I rang the bell and we waited. After a moment, the door opened a crack and the same wizened face peered around it at us. Priya said something short and sharp in Punjabi. The woman shut the door immediately.

"Christ, I'm glad I brought you!" I said sarcastically. "At least I got a few words out of her."

Priya just leaned on the bell.

It took four or five increasingly annoying rings until the old woman returned. This time she started speaking with what sounded like a question. Priya replied, and soon they were deep in conversation, firing bursts of Punjabi at each other like WWI machine gunners across no-mans-land.

I grew impatient, sighed, and turned away with a hand on one hip. At this I heard a cackle that I can only imagine was the old woman laughing. It was either that or her death rattle.

I turned around sharply, wondering if the old woman was in hysterics or whether we would have to curl her body in the boot of my car and dump it on the railway.

"What?" I asked, a little narked.

"She asked if you were my husband," Priya replied.

"And you said no?"

"Actually, I said I would rather spend a hundred nights trying to conceive a son with her than a single night trying with you," Priya said, flashing me an exaggerated wink.

The old woman was tapping Priya on the elbow, smiling broadly, her face wrinkled like a hand that's been in the bath too long.

"She thought you were an Immigration Officer. It seems that one or two of her nephews' visas have run out. I think she likes me though. What is it that you want to know?"

"Ask her who Manmohan Khera is and if she knows a guy called Tyrone Edge," I replied, skating over yet another blow to my already crumpled ego.

Priya translated this request. The old woman seemed to think briefly, scratching her sparsely haired chin with a long brown nail before replying animatedly.

"Manmohan Singh Khera is her son, he is renting this house from a white man that they don't see very often. Her son pays this man in cash, she says he is very handsome, quiet and never shouts if they are late with the money. She cooks this man some food and wraps it in chapattis, he always says thank you in bad Punjabi. Very respectful," Priya explained.

"What does this man look like?" I pressed for something more conclusive.

Again, Priya quizzed the old woman.

"She says he is tall like you, but not as fat..."

"You didn't need to translate that bit!" I butted-in. I was having a great time of it so far.

"He has dark hair like yours, but his skin is tanned. Oh, and she said his hands were dirty," Priya concluded.

Tall, dark and handsome, eh? I hated him from the get-go, but this could well be my man, I thought.

"Also, her son never calls this man, he just comes round and asks how they are every week. He fixes whatever they need, does all the work himself, and every four weeks he collects the money," Priya translated in real time and the old woman began to talk again, shaking her hands to add emphasis as she spoke.

"What day of the week does this mystery man arrive?" I asked.

Another brief exchange.

"You're in luck Satchmo, seems like he'll be here tonight," Priya replied.

Finally, a bit of a breakthrough here. Things were starting to look up, metrics-wise.

"Thank you Priya, you've been a great help," I said.

I said thank you to the old woman, Priya said her goodbyes, and we trundled off in my car with me sneaking glances at Priya while she pored over a paint colour chart.

"Stop it, Satchmo," she said without even looking up.

"What?" I asked, all innocent.

"Staring. Watch where you're going or you'll run us under a fucking bus, and then I'll never shag you," Priya smiled. I sighed.

"Though if I were to die, that would probably represent your best chance of getting into my pants she licked a finger provocatively and flipped a glossy page.

There wasn't much I could say to that. She looked up at me and arched an eyebrow.

"Now what?" I asked, embarrassed.

"I was wondering what shade of red you had blushed," she made a great show of consulting the chart. "Apoplectic Tory or Caught-Wanking Burgundy?"

I think I was still the same colour when I dropped her at the out-of-town megastore to fulfil my side of the bargain.

*

Later that evening I sat in my car; parked carefully in one of the pools of darkness between street lamps.

I was eating a large ham sandwich made with thickly sliced fresh bread and adorned with the wilted lettuce that Rommel would no longer touch.

That tortoise was getting seriously picky. It had to be the right lettuce; iceberg, not little gem, and God-forbid I should offer him some rocket. Only the green of the leaves would do, no trace of stalk. Lastly, it must be crisp and fresh. Consequently, I had the tortoise rejects spilling out of my sandwich and into my lap.

I glimpsed my watch; two hours and no sign of him yet.

I put the radio on quietly and sipped the last remnants from a water bottle. As soon as I swallowed, I knew that I had blundered as my bladder made its protests known. I glanced around. I could have a quick pee on the wasteland behind the houses across the street. Not very professional Satchmo, I thought. Edge could be in and out before I had finished draining the lizard.

I held on for ten, then fifteen minutes, until I could bear it no more. I opened the door and headed out into the darkness.

The wind was up, and I bowed my head while crossing the street, only looking up as I stumbled into the alley that led between houses to the wasteland.

When I did raise my gaze, it was straight into the menacing faces of three young men. Two wore baseball caps tight on their heads, the peaks pinched into a V. The third had a large hooded top that covered his face. All were dressed in dark jeans and jackets.

"What's this then?" one spoke in my direction. He had an implausibly sparse and ratty moustache that bobbed on his thin lip like a deranged caterpillar.

The other two stepped away from his side and spread out to flank me.

"Alright lads?" I tried to keep the note of apprehension out of my voice, but I didn't like the way it was going. Caterpillar 'tache palmed what looked like a bag of powder inside his jacket.

"I'm alright," he said. "But I could do with some change for the bus." It wasn't a request.

"I don't think I've got any on me right now," I croaked warily.

One of them slipped along the wall to take up position behind me. Fight or flight seemed to have just lost an option. I shifted my weight into a guard and brought myself up on my toes, the urgency of my bladder suddenly forgotten.

"No change, huh?" Caterpillar sneered. "We'll just have to have the fuckin' lot then."

He stepped towards me; hands outstretched. I bounced back and lashed out at the figure on my side, my palm striking the bridge of his nose and breaking it with an audible snap. I felt the warm spray of blood across the back of my hand as I withdrew it.

Broken Nose whimpered and slumped backwards, his hands trying to cram the blood now streaming down his chin back up his nostrils.

"Do him!" Caterpillar shouted.

I wheeled to face the thug behind me just in time to see the blur of his arm sweeping down. I barely made out the dark shape of the bottle in his fist before it glanced across my forehead.

Stars exploded in front of my eyes, and I was dimly aware of there being no pain as my legs turned to jelly and my world went black.