Finally he was dumping the DJ at the quayside hotel, pretty much six o’clock on the money. The Millennium Bridge, coiling over the river like a live electric wire, the reflection of its blue-yellow-purple light bobbing in the water. Already, along the quay, a couple of people were on their bikes. They had had their whole night, got up, for some unfathomable reason put their Lycra on, and got out here, all in the time Karl had been living through this insane episode. Karl opened the back door, like he was in Driving Miss Daisy or something, helped the DJ with his bag and coat, said that he hoped the guy had got enough sleep in the end.

‘I mean, not an ideal sleep, to be fair, mate,’ the guy had said. Are you trying to bust my balls even more than you already have, Karl wondered to himself. Are you looking to set a world record for the biggest busting of balls ever achieved? Are you after a T-shirt that says I BUST BALLS and then a web address underneath? I mean if you want a perfect night’s beauty sleep, maybe consider not driving from Wembley most of the way to fucking Scotland.

All this went through Karl’s inner censors as he ushered the DJ to the check-in desk, remarked again that he hoped it had been a good journey, thanked him for using Cruiz, basically did everything possible to keep alive the idea of a tip from this obviously affluent and privileged man, short of screaming Give me your money! into his face. The closest the DJ came to acknowledging almost six hours of Karl’s life was a muttered, ‘Cheers, mate’ as they went their separate ways. For ever, as far as Karl was concerned. He’d pass it to someone else if Cruiz ever got a booking for this lanky piece of shit again. The gentleman could shove the headphones up his rectum.

The warmth of defiance left Karl in the thirty seconds it took to cross the red and silver lobby to the toilet, with its swaggering gothic ‘M’ picked out in steel. Sports news was showing on the TVs which played to an empty bar: subtitles over red and blue jumpers playing rugby. Tomorrow’s match in Eddie Blair, said the caption, and then the correction: Tomorrow’s match in Edinburgh.