Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket he brought out Percy’s wallet, which he had taken off him before rolling him into the arms of Father Thames. The leather was soft and warm and oily to the touch – it could have been a slice of Percy’s hide, preserved and polished. There wasn’t much in it – a few taxi receipts, a laundry slip, a bill from Berry Bros. & Rudd for a case of Gevrey-Chambertin 1943. Liked a decent drop of plonk, did Percy. The Messrs Berry and Rudd could sing for their money, now. He turned up the wallet’s leather flaps and peered into its musty-smelling pockets. No personal things at all, not even a wrinkled photo of Mummy and Daddy Antrobus. Poor Percy and his lonesome life. Terry sighed. He had to admit he missed the old poofter, bad breath and all.

He finished his drink, nodded to the barman, and went out into the meagre April sunshine. The ale sat sourly on his stomach. He should eat something, but the thought of food made his gorge rise. The crossing from Holyhead had been rough, and a couple of times he thought he was going to puke. Reminded him of his navy days.

A bus honked at him as he was crossing the street, and a delivery boy on a bike, who had to swerve to avoid running into him, called him a bollocks and rode on, standing on the pedals and laughing.

Here was the bookshop again. He hesitated, then slipped inside.

So many books – so many words. Why did they do it, he wondered, why did they keep at it, hundreds of them, thousands, all hunched over with pen and paper, scribbling away, stopping now and then to stare into space, picking their noses or scratching their balls. Strange business, making up stories and expecting people to pay to read them.

The woman at the cash register was watching him, her spectacles glinting. She would know by the look of him he didn’t belong here, he thought bitterly.

He picked up a paperback, flicked through it. He had never heard of Brighton Rock. Then it came to him – it wasn’t a place that was meant, but rock, the sugar-stick kind. Brighton Rock. Clever, that.

A name jumped out at him. Pinkie. That was what  Percy Antrobus used to call him sometimes, when he had booze taken. ‘Hello there, Pinkie,’ he would say, his glistening purple lower lip hanging slack and his rheumy eyes full of merriment and malice. This must be where he got the name, from this book. Terry felt a surge of indignation. Being called Pinkie was bad enough – what kind of a name was it, anyway? – but to think Percy had lifted it out of a bleeding storybook, that was the limit.