Lee gives the Fiesta fuel to get it up Kings Head Hill. ‘How did you fall in with that lot anyway? Or don’t I want to know?’

‘I made some friends in Feltham.’

‘You were inside? When?’ Lee is surprised. The last time he represented Kemp, he got off without a custodial sentence.

‘Don’t worry, mate. Different lawyer. That was on someone else’s watch, bit later. Which is why I’ve come to you. I need some of the old magic.’

When Lee had handled Kemp’s possession charge, he’d considered it a run-of-the-mill offence, nothing serious. Without thinking too much about it, he’d coached Kemp on what to say, giving him a story to repeat. ‘That’s how it was, wasn’t it, Darren? I can see it happening like that.’ He thought it was for the best that he stay out of the criminal justice system – the criminal processing system, as it was at its best. On its good days.

‘Sorry,’ he says now. ‘I’m fresh out of magic. You could get another conviction, Darren. Commercial supply. It’s not good but it’s not the worst.’

‘Bzzt, wrong answer. Try again. You’ll need to do better than that.’

‘Not this time. I’m serious!’ Fed up, Lee raises his voice. ‘What good did it do you last time? And didn’t I say I didn’t want to see you back on charges? Yet here you are, three years on. And in a fucking state.’

Kemp is grinding his teeth. Lee checks himself. ‘Listen, you’re young,’ he says, softening. ‘They’ll want to help you. You’ve got priors and that’s not great, but you could get rehab inside, get yourself into a program. Honestly, there are worse things. It’s hard to get proper help outside, as you’ve probably discovered.’

‘Can you just shut it? I need to think!’ Scowling, Kemp puts his head down to rifle through his bag, and Lee is treated to a glimpse of a glass pipe, the bulbous end a smoky black where the lighter flame has touched it.

Of course. Of course it’s worked out like this. Shaking his head, Lee looks away. It’s times like this he regrets doing criminal work. He wants to do contracts, probate, family trusts, the cushy stuff with well-off clients who send a good bottle of red every Christmas. He thinks of his own clients as People Who Break Things. Where are the people he wants to believe exist, the people who fix things instead of shitting all over them?