The bar soon began to fill up with regulars, many of whom had been coming for so long they’d worn the grooves of their arses into the bench. Sam knew better than to try and sit in their places. Bet sat at her table, next to the record player, nearest to the bar. Next to her sat Dr Halligan who taught at the American school and usually had a few college students in tow – undergrads who’d lost the sheen of home. Giles from the British Embassy, sipping his Benedictine; Kline from – nobody knew where Kline was from. Germany, perhaps. Or Switzerland. Anyway, he had something to do with shipping, and was perpetually murmuring to Bet about tide times and anchorage. Wizened Derek Bluff and his glamorous wife Lina. Sam couldn’t help but blush when she leaned in to kiss him on both cheeks, filling his nose with powder and perfume. Roger once told him that Lina was a White Russian who had been a spy, and that Bluff was the British Service man who had unmasked her one fateful night in Gibraltar, only to fall unaccountably in love.

Sam exchanged pleasantries with them, brushing off questions about his writing, about where he had been. He wasn’t sure why he’d stopped coming to The Hold. He’d begun to feel as if it was a strange hinterland, a twilight zone between the denouement of a story and a coda that never came. Everyone there had a past; a wild, dangerous, murky past, yet now they lingered, the crescendo behind them. He felt so blank in comparison. High school, college, summer work, bumming around England and France and Spain. In Connecticut, that made him adventurous, but here …

He glanced over at Norton, who was holding forth to Giles about his golf handicap. Sighing, he called to Roger for another couple of beers.

Over at her table, Bet was peering down at a map that Kline had spread before her, and was marking things in pencil, talking softly. When he appeared, they both looked up abruptly.

‘Here,’ he said, passing her the beer. ‘Am I interrupting?’

‘No, no.’ Kline folded the map away. ‘I am picking only Bet’s knowledge. Please.’ He vacated his seat, indicating Sam should take it.

He did, and took a sip of the lukewarm beer. In the background, one of Halligan’s students was trying to replace the jazz record with David Bowie. Sam glanced over at Bet. He’d never been able to guess her age. Anywhere from fifty-five to seventy-five. It was impossible to tell.