He saw the dead bodies rise from their beds all over London. He saw them pull on red satin socks and brothel creepers with a leopardskin finish and scoop a palmful of Brylcreem through their hair. He saw nose rings clipped, and then the tartan trousers, and then the torn leather jacket. He saw faces he knew from ‘Feet First’, pale faces as gaunt even as Wayne from The Mission, and they too would be among the dead.

‘The one thing you can’t be is fucking emotional,’ Manus had said. ‘They say the “mainland” meaning the rest of the UK as opposed to the province of Ulster. They’re not referring to the Republic at all. They’re not saying the Republic isn’t a mainland.’

‘As if we don’t exist even.’

‘That’s more of it you buck-fucking eejit! That’s more of the emotional! If you’re emotional how are you going to think straight? You’ve to stay clear in the head, Steven. Don’t mind the fucking emotional.’

They saved what money they could from shit jobs and giros and kept it for the market on Sunday. They left squats and bedsits and made for the stations. From Tufnell Park, Brixton, Leytonstone. They were his own kind and if that was not proof of cold valour, what was?

He was on Camden High Street before he was aware of it. He went to the greasy spoon near the Good Mixer and he ordered a fried egg sandwich and a cup of tea. Two bites of the sandwich and he was on Inverness Street puking. He was annoyed at himself for that but there was no problem. He just had the look of another hungover scut on a Sunday morning.

There were slow hard minutes to be killed. He walked the backway to Camden Lock. He sat a while by the noodle stalls. He kept the case at his feet. He looked down at his boots. It came past noon.

He moved.

He felt steered as he walked along the High Street for the station. He passed by the Electric Ballroom. He saw the dead bodies climb out from the trains. The noise of Sunday on the High Street: the cockney boys selling lookalike threads – ‘Armani Armani! Versace Versace!’ – and the Sisters of Mercy blaring from ghetto blasters on the bakers’ pallets and the gangsters in cars playing acid house and hip hop.

From the tube station the roar of the ascending crowd.

He’d leave the case that was set for one o’clock. He’d meet her outside at half twelve on the dot – surely a German would be on time. They could be in Regent’s Park by the time it went, with her new boots bought. He waited outside a moment by the railings, Kentish Town Road side. He looked hard into the station. A response unit of the Met appeared in a sudden mob by the top of the elevator. There were a half-dozen of them, in riotwear, and a young goth was like a trapped animal between them, his arms all twisted.