And yet, maintaining The Lodge required such daunting upkeep. Gordon was exhausted from being so daunted. At four o’clock each morning, he was dragged out of his thin watery sleep by the list of what he needed to do to save The Lodge that very day: more maintenance, more begging. As with a prisoner who wakes from the freedom of his dreams to find himself in his cell, Gordon’s early hours were an agony of quiet recognition. He liked to envision himself standing against the future, but he suspected Kelly was right and he was just hiding from it, hoping the future would continue its good grace of washing past The Lodge, forgetting to sweep it, and him, away. His habits of inaction were his illness and his cure. His passivity, his admirable goodness, was driving everyone crazy, not least himself. But he had his reasons. Private reasons. There was more than one evil to stand his ground against.

Kelly was wiping froth off her upper lip. ‘We ought to free up this space,’ she said, glancing at a large group, some sort of office brunch party, eyeing the communal table. ‘Oh, Gordon, you’ve got to do something. We can’t both be down here hiding from Dog.’

‘At least we’re not drinking International Roast.’

‘I’m serious. You have to tell him you know.’

‘Can’t I enjoy keeping him guessing?’

‘I’d say yes if that’s what you were doing.’

‘Instead of what we are doing, which is ignoring it until it goes away.’

‘You’re not the one who should be feeling ashamed,’ she said with a disarming absence of emotion.

What Gordon couldn’t admit to Kelly, if she wanted to raise the subject of shame, was that a few weeks ago he had come to this very cafe to ask for a job. Fatigued with insomnia and desperation, he had mentioned his need for cash to Leonie, as a hint that she might take some responsibility for The Lodge’s outgoings or, as Gordon thought of them, outpourings. Blithely, Leonie had said, ‘Go to the Beach Cafe. I’ll call them. All you have to do is mention my name.’

So Gordon had sidled up to Lucio at the counter, leant close, and said significantly: ‘Leonie.’

‘What?’ Lucio had replied, showing his teeth.

Gordon repeated what he thought were the magic words. ‘We. Together. A job. You. Me. Leonie.’ For some reason, his English had deserted him and he felt the need to speak pidgin with an Italian accent.

‘The fuck is wrong with you, mate?’ Lucio said with a menacing steadiness.

Paolo had stepped out from behind the espresso machine.

‘Yeah! What the fuck is wrong with you?’