It was New Year, they were sitting in the bar of John Finlay’s pub, and everything was coming along nicely. No more trouble, since the biker gang had been sorted. There were punters in, decent people, spending plenty. The whole atmosphere of the place had changed. It was busy, everyone bustling around. There was laughter, music, and the cash registers were ringing like mad.

‘Friend of mine’s got clubs in London, he needs someone reliable to sort out the doors for him.’

‘Sounds OK,’ said Josh, thumbing through the newspaper. Agatha Christie the writer had died, and the SAS had gone to Northern Ireland. He folded the paper, put it back on the table.

‘This is where you reach him.’ John handed Josh a small rectangular purple card. ‘I said you might be in touch, but it’s up to you. Maybe you’re up to your arse in work, I dunno.’

Josh took the card. He had a lot of fights lined up, cash on the hip; this was all working out OK. Maybe he’d bother with this new contact, maybe not. He was going to need all the money he could lay hands on, because Shauna was never, ever going to be a cheap date; he did realize that. Her tastes were expensive. Show her a picture of ten sofas and she’d go for the dearest, every time. And now there were houses and even a baby to be considered, too. She was like a runaway train, unstoppable.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘It’s a pleasure. I owe you a lot.’

They chatted on into the evening and then at around eleven Josh drove back to the hotel.

He went into reception, trying not to think about how much all this lot was costing him. He and Shauna had already sorted out a place to rent, so they’d be fucking off from here soon, and just as well. Halfway across the floor on his way to the lifts, a bulky bald-headed man blundered up from a chair and grabbed the front of his coat.

‘There you are, you bastard,’ the man said, alcohol pouring in waves from his breath.

It was Pally, Claire Milo’s dad.

31

31

‘You fucker! You got her here with you then, my little girl? What did you do to her, you sod? What really happened?’

Pally Milo was pushing against Josh like a bull against the side of a pen, but Josh was thinking that there was no way he was going to flatten Claire’s father. The best he could do was pull him in close to restrain him as boxers often did, and shout in his face: ‘What you on about, Pally? Claire’s not with me.’

‘You liar, you filthy good-for-nothing . . .’ panted Pally.

‘It’s the truth.’

‘Liar!’