They were a dozen to the cell. They came from north Tipperary, south Limerick, north Kerry. Steven was the one they had chosen. The young fella was lethal. They could tell that by the set of mouth on him. Also he had the blood.

‘This day week?’ Steven said.

‘I can try,’ Manus said. ‘A fucking guitar case.’

They went into the hot morning sun. Even the pure unmoving heat of July was a relief after the crush of the tube station. They headed down the High Street among the crowds.

‘Some collection of fucking poofters,’ Manus said.

The goths sold bootleg tapes from briefcases stacked on bakers’ pallets: Sisters of Mercy live in Amsterdam. The punks sat on the ground on the corner of Inverness Street and drank cider with their dogs. The rockabillies headed for the early dance show at Camden Lock. The acid-house kids bounced about like rubber toys and beamed madly as they headed into the warren of the market stalls. There were two blokes in old-fashioned gowns outside the Electric Ballroom.

‘Some collection of homos,’ Manus said.

They went along past the veg stalls of Inverness Street. A graffito on the wall read:

’88 Summer Of Love – Enjoy This Trip

They went into the Good Mixer which had no more than a scatter of old men at its tables yet. Manus bought the two pints and they played a game of pool.

‘How you fixed anyway?’

‘I’m not so bad,’ Steven said.

‘You at the French restaurant yet?’

‘Kensington Church Street.’

‘You’re turning out the gourmet cuisine for ’em, you are?’

‘I’m KP,’ Steven said. ‘Kitchen porter.’

‘Nice way of putting it for a pot scrubber.’

‘Well.’

‘Charles and Di down that way, no?’

‘Not far.’

‘You’d have an aul’ lick off her and all, wouldn’t you?’

Manus was a dog man from north Kerry. There wasn’t much wrong with the back end of a greyhound he couldn’t fix. He worked often at the Walthamstow track. He was the only one that Steven met with on a regular basis. That was the best practice, no question. Everybody studied the practice. Late at night, in the farmhouses and semi-ds – the practice.

Steven named bottom left for the black and made the shot easily.

‘Handy,’ Manus said.

Steven was seventeen the month of June gone. He had a black mass of backcombed hair and a graveyard pallor. His uniform daily was motorcycle boots and black army trousers, no matter the weather. He lived in a squat near Goodge Street station. The building was owned by Arabs and the apartments were for short-term lets. There were always at least half of them empty. Change the locks and they had to give you six months’ notice to get out.

‘What’ll you do after?’

‘I’ll go to a pub and watch the news,’ Steven said.

‘Wear your eyeliner,’ Manus said. ‘Keep the hair up. Wear all the gear, yeah?’

‘No fear,’ Steven said.

Kensington Church Street, Thursday afternoon, 3 p.m.