Thanks, she says. Nearly a year now. Ria puts the paper bag of condoms down on the table and dunks a biscuit in her tea. He used to listen to me every week, she says, when the man has gone. She sinks back into the sofa with her biscuits, kicks off her shoes and rests her feet on Ollie’s legs, digging in her toes.

He shifts round to face her and puts his feet up too. The sofa is amazingly comfortable: it would be quite nice to sleep here until closing time, whenever that is.

*

Let’s get lunch, says Ria. I’ll get it.

It must be mid afternoon. They stop at a Chinese takeaway and she orders chow mein and prawn crackers, two pairs of chopsticks and two cans of Fanta. They eat it on the grass in Kennington Park. Ria reads her magazine (the front cover: Have You Given Away Your Power? Claim it Back).

A street drinker approaches and she gives him her change. That’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid. Here, have these. She gives him the remainder of the prawn crackers.

She wipes the chopsticks on the paper napkin and sticks them in her hair, bundling it up. She takes out her tobacco tin and rolls a joint.

*

The band is good – at least, they seem to know what they’re doing, so far as Ollie can tell.

It’s years since he’s been down here – not since the cigarette ban. He remembers the old priest smoking fag after fag – sitting in the corner, lank grey hair falling to his dog collar, tapping his feet, black Derby shoes and fine dress socks, that thin smile he had that was almost a leer, peddling jazz and hallucinogens. (How did they banish the smell of smoke in time for the mornings? Must have been people praying here, kneeling on squashed chips and fag butts and beer-drenched hassocks. How d’you explain that, Father Rodney? To your other congregation? The Body of Christ. The Blood of Christ. And that’s a squashed chip.)

Do they still sell absinthe here?

Not for years.

The electric candles are atmospheric. The darkness feels smoky, even without the smoke. He can make out words carved in the stone slabs under his feet: they must be tombs.

The barman seems to know Ria. She gets them beers.

The double bassist really is good (at least: he looks and sounds convincing, and there are people in hats and black turtlenecks nodding approvingly and occasionally vocalizing). A younger priest mingles with the aficionados, the black garb blending in nicely. No sign of the old guy.

Around them people are eating burgers and plates of pasta at candlelit tables, seated at pews.

Ria looks enviously at the food. Shall we get dinner here?

I’ve only got a twenty. I was thinking booze.

We could get chips on the way home.

I’ll get another round. Shall we have shots?