‘I see,’ Bobby said. Another moment passed. A ragged silence settled between the two men. If one of them did not offer something in the next few seconds, the conversation, such as it was, would die. Bobby stymied an inner disgust, sighed, and said his three least favourite words in the world.

‘Do you write?’

Bobby saw it straight away: the fretful, eager, abashed flinch and bristle.

‘Uh, I mean, I’m trying,’ the man admitted. ‘I mean, I’m not any good.’

‘You’d fit right in, then,’ Bobby said. ‘At the Andromeda.’

‘No, man, you’re on another level to what I’m doing.’

Bobby shrugged. ‘There’s always more levels.’ He removed his hand from his pocket, the baggie dangling between his fingers. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to go get lightly spaced.’

The guy lunged at the passenger door, pushed it open. ‘Look, I detained you enough to offer you a lift at least, if you want.’

Bobby looked into the interior of the car, the guy watching him, waiting.

‘I see,’ Bobby said.

The guy’s head came swimming up out of Bobby’s lap after a long minute of strenuous and sudsy fellatio. He blinked like a man who has just been jarred from a deep dream, eyes bloodshot and ­tear-­filmed. He put his forearm up to his humid mouth, seemed to sink his teeth into his flesh, and made an anguished noise.

‘Hey, hey, it’s OK,’ Bobby said.

‘I’m ­just – I can’t with the kid here.’

‘Yeah . . .’ Bobby turned his head and saw the ­flesh-­toned distortion of his own face floating in the rectangle of black glass partitioning the back of the vehicle’s interior from the front. As Bobby did up his fly the guy brought the partition back down. A ­nursery-­pop jingle was burb­ling gently from the rear speakers. The baby had taken hold of one of her legs and was trying to guide her fat foot into her mouth, an activity she now suspended in order to smile very prettily at her ­half-­sibling’s blotchy, remorseful face.

‘It was kind of weirding me out too,’ Bobby lied.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ the guy said. ‘This isn’t how I pictured my afternoon.’

‘You’re all right,’ Bobby said, suddenly wary. The key now was to get out before the guy started unloading about his originary trauma or whatever.

‘It’s my ­father – he’ll, he’ll throw me out on the street again if he finds out I did something like ­this – in his ­car – with Saoirse right fucking there! Jesus! Jesus!’

Bobby glanced at his phone. Two missed calls and a text, all from Fiachra Calhoun. The text simply said In Andromeda. Normally, Bobby would have ignored or evaded Calhoun’s ­midweek-­afternoon overtures, but right now he needed a drink.

‘Listen, I got to go,’ he said.