Rafael knew the area well and chatted to a number of people as he led me through the streets and up the rickety back steps of a bar down the street from Salome’s. The bar was on a roof terrace, decked in fairy lights – a theme carried over to the tables where clusters of lights sat in shallow bowls. The place was packed with people and body odour was the aroma of the night. Rafael didn’t smell bad though. He smelled of lemons.

‘What aftershave is that?’ I asked him as we waited in line for a table.

‘I don’t wear it. This is my natural manly scent.’

‘Liar.’

‘Tom Ford, Venetian Bergamot.’

‘Knew it.’

‘Like it?’

‘Bit.’

‘Good.’

His shirt flapped open again on a holy night breeze, showing a tattoo on his chest over his heart – stars and stripes, and a bird perched on a cactus, its beak clutching a snake.

‘What is that?’ I said, pointing it out.

‘Mexican-American flag. My buddy did it before I joined up.’

‘Joined up what?’

‘The army.’

‘You’re in the army?’ I said.

‘Was,’ he corrected. ‘Left a couple years ago, before I made Sergeant First Class.’

I didn’t know what to say, not having had any military interest myself, other than what I’d gleaned from watching one ep of SAS: Who Dares Wins and even then I switched over halfway through to DIY: SOS. It was just a lot of shouting and being denied bacon sandwiches. I’d crack on the first day.

After an age of waiting, which for once I didn’t mind as my fat ass was well entertained by bowls of free coconut prawns being handed out, we were shown to a table by the roof’s edge. Rafael pulled my chair out for me.

‘You wanna try the gins?’

‘No, can’t stand gin.’

‘Why d’you let me bring you to a gin bar if you don’t like gin?’

‘Dunno. I wanted to go where you were going.’ My face heated up. Even serial killers get embarrassed, you know. I realised that the day I was aggressively scratching my minge and the postman was watching me through the window. ‘I’ll have whatever you are.’

‘I’m having a beer. What you wanna eat?’

‘Surprise me.’

And so he did. He returned to the table with six Pacificos in a bucket of ice cubes and cut limes, followed by a waiter with a large tray heaving under several different little bowls and plates of piping hot food.

‘Oh, I love this!’ I squealed. ‘We did this in Spain, me and my friend. I tried jamon and fried sardines and baby squid and pintxos. It was great!’