Despite his rush to get the interview underway, the applicant seemed reluctant to answer any questions, and appeared to be relying almost exclusively on a reference someone was supposedly sending that, as of yet, had not appeared in Gavin’s inbox.

“Maybe we could just press on without it,” Gavin suggested, straightening his spectacles. “I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

Hoon gave the lad the sort of look usually reserved for a daud of dog shite on a nice new carpet, then grunted. “Fine. Aye. Fire away.”

Gavin smiled, sensing more familiar ground on the horizon. He still had a nagging uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach, though. He’d been given interview training by the company and knew all about open questions, relaxing small-talk, and why failing to plan was planning to fail.

But, he suspected that whoever had prepared the training hadn’t encountered an applicant quite like—he checked his notes—Robert Hoon.

“So, you were in the police?” Gavin asked, scanning his list of questions. “What was that like?”

“Which bit?” Hoon asked.

Gavin checked his notes again—a pointless gesture, as he knew he had no follow-up question prepared.

“Well… all of it?”

Hoon shrugged. “Right, well, five years being spat at by jakeys, a decade or so chasing paedos and rapists, then a lot of fucking paperwork with the occasional serial killer to break the monotony. So, you know, a right barrel of laughs, overall.” His eyes narrowed. “How old are you, by the way?”

“Twenty,” Gavin replied. “Well, twenty next month. The fifteenth.”

“I don’t need the details, son, I’m no’ going to send you a card,” Hoon told him. “Nineteen, then? Fucking hell.”

“We try not to use that sort of language in the workplace. And we make a point of not discriminating by age,” Gavin said. He looked down at his page and added, “Unfortunately,” below his breath.

“That reference arrived yet?” Hoon asked.

Gavin glanced at the screen and shook his head. He jumped when Hoon thumped a fist down on the table and ejected a, “Fuck’s sake!”

“It’s… it’s not a problem. Honestly,” Gavin said. “Just try to, you know, relax. I know interviews can be stressful—they’re a lot of pressure, so—”

“Pressure?” Hoon snorted. “Sitting in a pokey wee room being quizzed by a Value Range Walter the Softy out of the fucking Beano? Believe me, son, I’ve enjoyed farts with more pressure behind them.”

Gavin self-consciously adjusted his glasses again. “I must ask you to stop swearing,” he said, skilfully avoiding eye contact.

“Who’s actually in charge here, by the way?” Hoon asked. “No’ you, surely?”

“I’m Junior Manager.”

“Aye, emphasis on the ‘junior.’ Who’s the big boss, though? What about her I saw on the way in? Hefty lassie. Face like a bag of tits.”