‘We should share a taxi then.’

He nods and stands up and has to steady himself on the table. ‘I’m not drunk,’ he says catching my eye, ‘well, not that drunk. My knees are just seizing up.’

I laugh. He sounds just like Dad.

‘It’s not funny,’ he says, but he’s not really angry, ‘you ask any plasterer. It knackers your body. Just one of the many reasons I need to move on.’

‘You didn’t seem so decrepit when you were rescuing me from that gang of violent thugs earlier.’

‘Is that the way you’re going to tell it?’

‘That’s exactly the way.’

He smiles.

I reach down for my bag and slip the photo into the front pocket when he’s not looking.

And it’s the sound of my heels on the pavement. His arm brushing against mine. His hand on the small of my back as we cross to the other side. The odd car swishing past on the wet roads. Music escaping from Scamps, the thud of the bass, the bouncers standing by the front door chewing gum and looking bored out of their skulls. We run for a taxi before the rush and the door slams shut on all the noise.

‘Lane Ends please, mate,’ he says.

I check my purse to get my money ready and Ian tells me to put it away. His face is all kindness now, soft and slack, not like before, not like in the photo. We drive past groups of people coming out of the pubs, lights on in windows and queues outside the takeaways by the polytechnic.

‘Wait a minute,’ I say, ‘you never told me where you were actually planning to go tonight before I hijacked your evening.’

‘It’s not exciting. I was coming in from a job out Chorley way. I was going to walk to the other side of the station and get the next bus home.’

‘So you weren’t even going into town at all?’

‘It’s not like it was a hardship. You’re a lot more exciting than dinner in front of the TV.’

I smile. There’s a gentleness about him. It’s surprising. With all the stuff he must have been through. All the violence and chaos. Making his way on his own. I get the feeling I’ve only begun to touch the surface.

The car stops at the lights near home. I open my bag and pretend to look for something, catch the sharp edge of the spare key on the palm of my hand.

‘What number do you live at?’ he says.