I drove to Archfield Road and as we inched up Park Street in heavy traffic Darren took a Walkman from his jeans pocket, slipped on headphones, began to slap his spindly thigh to the rhythm. When we got to the job I motioned Jimmy over, the boss of the team I had there, the men who dig out and lay the foundations and pilings. Jimmy was a monkey of a man, short and wiry, darkened by summers and winters spent outside. Hard as nails. Firm but firm.

‘Jimmy, Darren. Darren’s new. He slept in late, so he’s got plenty of energy.’

Darren stood watching the gang working the earth with a sneer wrapped round his thin, pinched face.

Jimmy grinned. ‘Fair enough, Mr Player. We could use some of that.’

I spent the day driving round the various jobs we had going, picked timber up from Robbins, did some paperwork, hauled cement and sharp sand over to Clifton, and then went back to Archfield Road to collect some of the team and take them back to the office. They were waiting by the wall outside, some smoking, their cigarettes flashing in the dark winter afternoon, some reading newspapers, some wandering off to the Cotham Porter Stores. They would find their own way home. Darren sat apart from them all, mouth slack, staring at his feet. I pulled up and hooted the horn. Jimmy waved and three of the men got into the truck, with Darren straggling behind. Jimmy came over and twitched an eyebrow in Darren’s direction. ‘Lazy sod,’ he said.

‘You’ll have him again tomorrow, I’m afraid.’

‘Shit,’ said Jimmy. ‘Sorry, Mr Player. But he can’t do anything. Asked him to mix cement on a spot, even showed him how to, and he still couldn’t do it. Kept complaining about his shoes.’

‘His shoes?’

‘Yeah.’

Darren’s face loomed in the window, inches away from me, so close I could see each pustule on his forehead, see the pus gathering. ‘Look at my fuckin’ trainers. Ninety-five quid they cost and they’re knackered.’ His face was vicious with outrage. ‘You owe me a new pair.’

I laughed. ‘Get in, Darren.’

‘You owe me a new pair. Ninety-five quid.’

‘Get in the truck, Darren.’

He said something and I got out of the truck and stood right by him, so close I could smell his malnourished breath. ‘What did you say?’

‘Nuffin’.’

‘What did you say?’

Jimmy didn’t move, stayed so still you couldn’t see him breathing. He’d never seen me like this.

‘What did Jon say? Sorry, Harry, but I wasn’t bothering right then about modulating my voice. Darren sneered, moved away. ‘I can read lips, Darren. I can practically read your pitiful fucking mind.’ He moved again, bumped into the truck. ‘What did you say?’ His eyes began to flicker, side to side, but there wasn’t any skinny-arsed rat-pack running with him that day. ‘I’ll tell you what you said. You said, to me, “Fucking deaf-aid.” That’s what you said, isn’t it, Darren? You said to me, “Fucking deaf-aid.’” His eyes were darting now, looking at the men in the truck, who stared back impassively. I bent down until my face was level with his. ‘Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.’