“What do you listen to now, Alan?” Dave asked Banks.

“Bit of everything, I suppose,” Banks said. “Jazz, classical, some of the old rock stuff. You?”

“Nothing much. I sort of lost interest in music in the seventies, when we had the kids. Never really got it back. Remember Steve, though, the kind of stuff he used to make us listen to on Sunday afternoons? Dylan and all that.”

Banks laughed. “He was ahead of his time, was Steve. Where the hell is he, anyway? Surely he must have heard, someone must have been in touch with him.”

“Hadn’t you heard?” Paul said.

Banks and Dave both stared at him. “What?”

“Shit. I thought you must know. I’m sorry. Steve’s dead.”

Banks felt a shiver up his spine. The Big Chill. It was one thing to get to an age when the generation ahead started dying off, but another thing entirely to face the mortality of your own generation. “What happened?” he asked.

“Lung cancer. About three years ago. I only know ’cos his mum and dad kept in touch with mine, like. Christmas cards, that sort of thing. I hadn’t actually seen him for years. Apparently he had a couple of kids, too.”

“Poor sod,” said Dave.

After a brief silence, they raised their glasses and drank a toast to the memory of Steve, early Dylan fan. Then they toasted Graham again. Two down, three to go.

Banks looked closely at each of his old friends and saw that Dave had lost most of his hair and Paul was gray and had put on a lot of weight. He started to feel gloomy, and even the memory of Michelle naked beside him failed to dispel the gloom. His lip burned and his left side ached from where his assailant had kicked him. He felt like getting pissed, but he knew when he felt that way that it never worked. No matter how much he drank he never reached the state of oblivion he aimed for. Even so, he didn’t have to watch what he drank. He wasn’t driving anywhere that night. He had thought he might try to get in touch with Michelle later, depending on how the evening went, but they hadn’t made any firm arrangements. Both needed time to absorb what had happened between them, Banks sensed. That was okay. He didn’t feel that she was backing off or anything, no more than he was. Besides, she had a lot to do. Things were moving fast.

Banks looked at his cigarette smoldering in the ashtray and thought of Steve. Lung cancer. Shit. He reached forward and stubbed it out even though it was only half smoked. Maybe it would be his last. That thought made him feel a bit better, yet even that feeling was fast followed by a wave of sheer panic at how unbearable his life would be without cigarettes. The coffee in the morning, a pint of beer in the Queen’s Arms, that late evening Laphroaig out by the beck. Impossible. Well, he told himself, let’s just take it a day at a time.