“Daisy! Such extravagance!” Esther laid a hand to her chest in mock outrage.

“But . . .” Ed Gemmell waved helplessly at Esther’s attire.

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.” Esther put an arm around him and pinched his cheek. “That’s the glory of a student bar: They won’t care. Besides, I’ve been to lectures wearing less.”

As much as Susan enjoyed this unwitting sadism of her friend, repeatedly drawing Ed Gemmell’s attention to how little she was wearing, it was getting chilly, and she didn’t want to have to deal with Esther’s inevitable hypothermia. Susan finished her cigarette and dropped it to the ground, placing the toe of her Converse over the butt and grinding it into the earth.

“Come on. Let’s go see if the barman remembers us from last time . . .”

“I hope not,” Daisy said in alarm.

Susan gave Ed Gemmell an arch look that set him further a-blither. “You coming?” she asked.

“Maybe later . . . library . . .” he said, scuttling off in entirely the wrong direction.

Giving his retreating figure a moment’s further contemplation, Susan shrugged off her suspicions and turned to follow her friends.

There were several residence halls located on different sites around the city of Sheffield. The newest ones resembled all-inclusive hotels, with clean expanses of glass and easy-to-navigate gravel paths, signs marking the locations of multiple laundry rooms, dining halls, lounges, and bars. Some had on-site shops supplying emergency essentials, such as laundry detergent, plastic shot glasses, tortilla chips, and alcohol.

And then there was Catterick Hall, the kind of place vermin came to holiday.

Like everything else here, the bar had a whiff of prison about it. An impression that was enhanced by the window bars fitted to prevent ambitious students from stealing items such as beer barrels, pot plants, and, as on the occasion that had necessitated the installation of the bars, an entire coffee table. Once inside, the decor was equally dour, with the same aim of deterring petty theft. No one could possibly wish to steal any of the artwork—abstract paintings layered with streaks and blisters of yellow and orange, presumably created by a Jackson Pollock wannabe who worked in bodily fluids rather than paint. Even the furniture cushions defied desirability with their scratchy fabric and miserly stuffing.