‘Poor little fucker,’ he said. ‘He wants to be free.’

‘We’ll put him in the pond in the park.’

‘Nah. We’ll fry him up for breakfast. Come on, Goldie. You’re going to be lovely on a piece of toast, ain’t you?’

When we got back to the room at eleven-thirty, I filled the water jug and released the fish from its bag.

‘You soft sod,’ said Wright.

‘There’s no point in being cruel.’

He hung his jacket up carefully, and unbuttoned his shirt, whistling ‘Don’t Be Cruel’, occasionally singing in his best Presley vibrato.

‘Pity you haven’t got your camera,’ he said, when he was barechested.

‘I have.’

‘Go on, then, get it out, as the actress said to the bishop.’

The air seemed thicker, the yellow light from the single overhead bulb soupy and diffuse. ‘It’s too dark in here. I only brought it to take snaps of Blackpool.’

‘Ah, go on. Give it a try. I feel like it.’ He stretched his arms above his head. His ribs, and the muscles along them, stood out in neat ranks.

I fumbled with the lens cap. ‘Nothing’s going to come out, just smudges.’

‘Yeah, but what smudges!’ He ran his hands over his chest, down his stomach, hooking the thumbs in his waistband. ‘Here’s one for that fucking movie producer.’

‘Hold still, then.’ I stopped down to F2.8, selected a 1/16th shutter speed, and hoped my hands weren’t shaking too much. Wright stood beneath the light, twisting and turning to maximise the definition. I released the shutter.

‘If that comes out, it might be all right.’

‘Do some more.’

‘What?’

‘I want to do more.’

I felt like we were crossing a line.

‘I’ll do my best. No promises, though.’

He was humming softly, winding his hips in gentle figures of eight, dancing with an invisible partner, his hands running over his torso. I kept snapping. He started dancing in earnest, moving his feet, clicking his fingers.

We both knew what was coming next. He unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his flies, opening them to a wide V. One more button, and a flash of white.

‘Oh my God. You’re wearing them.’

‘Surprised?’ His eyes were closed, and he carried on dancing. I kept shooting, caution drowned in drink.

He unlaced his shoes, pulled off his socks. His trousers fell around his ankles. He had an erection. I kept shooting. It would be easy enough to destroy the film in the morning. One quick tug in the cold light of day, the images erased forever.

‘How about it?’

‘What?’

‘Want a piece of the action?’

‘I …’

‘Come on,’ he said, in his gangster accent, ‘give a buddy a helping hand.’ He thrust his hips forward, eyes closed, lips parted.

It would all be forgotten in the morning.

I put the camera down carefully on the bed, and squatted in front of him. His groin was at eye level. There was a small wet spot on the fabric of the pouch. Wright pushed closer.