‘You could go to prison.’

‘Can’t be worse than National Service.’

I wanted to run. Any minute now I expected to see coppers swarming through the door.

‘Relax, Michael. You look as nervous as a kitten. I prescribe gin. Large ones!’ He signalled to the barman, a made-up little chorus boy with a disappointed pout. We drank, and I felt better, or at least numb.

‘So, how are all my dear friends at Reville? How is that gorgeous creature Sergeant Kelsey? Does he miss me terribly? My dear, there’s a closet case if ever there was one.’

‘He’s a pain in the arse, as usual.’

‘What a disgusting thought.’

‘But I can put up with him.’

‘Strikes me you put up with altogether too much. You should just get out.’

‘That’s what Wright says.’

‘Oh yes, the lovely Airman Wright, with his bedroom eyes and his dining room lips. They’ve been swooning over him at Muscle Boy, I tell you. He could make a fortune down here.’

‘I’m not sure if that’s quite the career he has in mind.’

‘Well you tell him from me that he’d be living in the lap of luxury if he shows his pretty face in London.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘Jealous, are we? I did wonder. So, you finally got him, did you?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Stephen. The way you talk.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

‘I just don’t want him falling into bad company. He’s so impressionable.’

‘Oh please. Rita Wright? She’s about as impressionable as a rhino.’

‘You’re wrong. He thinks the streets are paved with gold.’

‘And for the likes of him, they are.’

‘He’s not a whore.’

The barman heard the word, gasped theatrically and put a hand to his collar.

‘Look, Stephen, you’ve got the wrong idea. Wright is normal. He’s just … well, he gets …’

‘Frustrated? Don’t tell me. He was so randy, and the women were all bitches, and he was drunk, and the next morning he didn’t remember a thing.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘What was it like, then?’

‘What is this, Stephen? The Spanish Inquisition?’

‘No, dear. I learned my interrogation techniques at Halton. They know how to worm a girl’s secrets out of her.’

‘Thankfully, I don’t know anything about that.’

Stephen looked over the top of his gin. ‘Yet,’ he said, and took a swig.

The next port of call was in Gerrard Street, another tatty doorway with the words ‘The Captain’s Cabin painted in jaunty white lettering with a few nautical motifs on a blackboard. A steep, narrow staircase led up to a heavy wooden door. It took a good shove to get it open. Again, there was a gust of noise, but this time it was immediately hushed, as a dozen pairs of eyes turned towards us. There was a second of silence – the jukebox had chosen that moment to change records – and the volume rose again, along with the voice of Tommy Edwards, ‘It’s All in the Game’. There was the same mix of civilians and servicemen, the majority of them sailors, and, to my surprise, a number of women.