‘Oh.’

‘So I ask him what’s really going on and that’s when he tells me about the pictures.’

I had a horrible feeling I knew what was coming. ‘What pictures?’

‘Oh, fuck it. When I got out of the nick I was broke, wasn’t I? I told you I went round all the physique studios and made a few quid here and there. Well, some of them paid better than others.’

‘Gerald.’

‘He fucking told me that nobody would see the pictures except for a few of his personal friends. That they were fucking private. He gave me ten quid.’

‘That’s a lot of money.’

‘Ha fucking ha. It seemed like a lot of money at the time. It was the difference between eating and not eating. Or going with one of those dirty old cunts in the West End. I could have done that you know, twenty times a day, if I wanted to, but I didn’t.’

‘What’s in the photos, Wright?’

‘You know … the sort of thing …’

‘Nudes.’

‘Yeah, but …’

‘Oh shit. Hard.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Wanking.’

‘Yeah, all right, you don’t have to fucking spell it out. You weren’t so fucking prudish at one time.’

‘But I didn’t sell those pictures at five quid a go to anyone who came calling, did I?’

‘That fucking bastard,’ he said, slamming his fist into the wall, ‘I’m going to fucking kill him.’

‘Calm down, for Christ’s sake. How far has this gone?’

‘Someone sent a photo to the head of the studio.’

‘What, to J. Arthur himself?’

‘Yeah, that’s a fucking laugh, isn’t it? Here’s your new boy in nothing but a pair of boots, having a good old J. Arthur.’

‘Did he ask for money?’

‘I don’t fucking know, do I? All Templeton would say is that under the current circumstances it would be unwise to launch my career in pictures.’

‘I see.’

He carried on, swearing and spitting and punching.

‘Is that why you came back?’

‘What?’

‘This morning. Is that what made you come back to me? Templeton sacked you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Or did Maxine throw you out when she heard that you weren’t going to be her leading man?’

‘Fuck off, Mickey, it’s not like that.’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Don’t you start being a cunt too.’ His voice cracked. ‘I can’t …’

I put an arm around him, and let him sob out all his frustration, shame and broken dreams.

After a week of peace and normality, the phone rang in the middle of the night. Mervyn just rolled over, taking most of the blankets with him.

‘Michael? It’s Stephen. Are you all right?’

‘Stephen … It’s three o’clock in the morning.’

‘You haven’t heard, then.’ He was practically whispering. I could hear traffic in the background; he must have been in a phone box.

‘Heard what? Stephen, are you in some kind of trouble?’

‘Me, dear? No. Not me.’

‘Then what’s this about?’

‘It’s Mervyn.’

There was a long silence, then I asked, ‘What about Mervyn?’