He could hear the noise of liquid falling down her throat, swallowed in large intakes, large breaths in between, she was giving it some.

‘Got to go. Nearly there.’

‘Love you babes.’

He obviously hadn’t said it.

‘Love you too.’

He didn’t think that was a lie.

‘Kiss to Jacob.’

‘Kiss to you. Big fucking kiss, I want that. Can you talk to me Ever?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You know, make me come.’

‘I’m in a taxi.’

‘Please.’

‘I can’t.’

‘I’m doing it anyway, I’m going to come.’

‘Got to go.’

He could hear her breathing and he knew what was about to happen.

His leg could now stop being rubbed; he turned off the phone with one hand and exhaled a breath of relief that she was still with him, Jacob was all right, and that he could stop rubbing his leg. Knowing she would still be rubbing herself; well probably just about coming to a stop.

‘Which number, you want?’

‘It’s at the cross with Cesar Chavez Avenue, 1402. Building on the corner.’

‘Where you from?’

‘Originally here, then the UK.’

Here we go again.

‘And where’s the trouble coming from?’

‘The what?’

‘On the other end of the phone, forgive me asking, just messing with you.’

‘Yeah, a lot of people do that. That’s my wife. She’s OK, just misses me.’

‘Yeah, right, and they always have a funny way of showing it.’

The journey then continued in silence, filled for Ever with a visual image of Clarissa. Step by step. And then a little post-masturbatory doze.

‘This good for you, my friend?’

Back to it.

‘Yeah that’s good.’

‘That’s going to cost you the best part of fifty-five bucks.’

‘OK, that’s…’

Before Ever could continue.

‘That’s a thirty-minute ride. That, per hour, is not a big rate. I’m not totally unskilled labour, you know, I’m responsible for your life, for those minutes, my friend.’

‘Yes, no, I’m grateful, thank you.’

The English in the Englishman kicking in. What he really wanted to say was fuck you, big fucking deal. Go fuck your sister.

No he didn’t really, not all that, just the first part.

He gave him sixty; the cab driver counted and gave a reluctant,

‘You take care now.’

As if still assessing the questionable generosity of the tip.

Tip culture, this America. Everybody expects, and gets, a fucking tip.

He wasn’t going to tip Mr Wong, no, me old China, he was going to bargain.

Fuck – the ATM.

He was at Mr Wong’s address at the right time, but now he needed a bank. His cab was still there, hadn’t moved, as the driver was putting his counted cash into a pouch. A leather pouch that he must have had his whole cab driving career. Probably his wife’s gift on day one.

‘Excuse me, I’m sorry, but I need a bank.’