‘And I think you should eat your bacon.’ He’s looking at me in that curious way he has and I drop my eyes for fear that he will read what’s inside them. During these last few weeks I’ve been road-testing feelings that have been dormant for so long I scarcely remember what to do with them. All I know is that the more time I spend with Duval, the more it feels like the missing pieces to some emotional jigsaw are being slotted back in place, and I should probably stop right now, before it’s too late, before the picture is complete and there, apparent for everyone to see.

‘Why? Are you intending to pinch it?’

‘It had crossed my mind.’

‘Give me a low-down on the huntsman at the till and it’s yours.’

Duval starts to twist round.

‘No.’ I touch his hand lightly. ‘Without looking.’ Underneath mine, his fingers are long and brown. A pianist’s hands. I look down at them. I’ve wondered before how it would feel to have them curve around the edge of my ribs. To brush over my skin. I take my hand away.

‘Okay.’ Duval plucks a toothpick from the holder and chews on it. ‘Camouflage hat, worn high on head, matching trousers, bunch of keys attached to belt loops. On his face, a look of bovine stupidity. IQ guaranteed slightly lower than room temperature and a propensity to spit. He’s got a knife at his waist modelled on his favourite action-movie star, which only now he’s discovering doesn’t actually do the job. Boots are splattered with blood. Too bad a shot to kill the animal outright, so he’s had to stomp it to death after a minor flesh wound to the leg. How am I doing?’

‘I think he looks charming.’ Over his shoulder I watch as Barb hands the huntsman a pile of cardboard take-out containers. As he heads towards the door, she takes a tortoiseshell comb from her apron pocket and draws her thin hair up into a bun. ‘I mean, don’t you think that for a man of such dubiously elastic morality, you’re being a little judgemental?’

Duval just looks at me, the smile back behind his eyes, and begins counting. ‘Five, four, three, two . . .’

Outside the hunter looks up at the sky then spits on the ground twice.

Duval grins and forks the bacon off my plate. ‘So what was your answer to Hogan’s little business proposition?’

‘I said I’d consider it.’ Through the window I watch Winfred’s car pull in. It’s his civilian ride, a stylish rezmobile, crouched low to the ground, with flaking green paint and a speaker wired to the top. The first time I’d seen him drive it, he told me it had won competitions. I never dared ask for what.

‘And will you?’

‘Of course not.’