He was sitting in the bar of his private club, nursing a rum and Coke. His club was just off the Railton Road, and only accessible to certain people. It was small, but his clientele liked that. It was a place where people could relax without worrying about what they might say or who they said it to. He catered for people like himself, who needed to keep a degree of privacy, and who were also willing to pay for that.

He heard Michael before he saw him. He was greeting the doorman as usual and, as he walked down the stairway into the bar, he was laughing. Jermaine stood up, and Michael shook his hand firmly. He then stood aside and Jermaine found himself shaking Jeffrey Palmer’s outstretched hand.

There wasn’t anyone tending the bar so early in the day, so Jermaine walked behind the counter himself. ‘What can I get you?’

Michael Flynn sat down on the banquette in the corner. It was newly re-covered in gold and green brocade. Jeffrey Palmer sat beside him, looking around him with interest. Jermaine was glad he had upgraded the place. He had a sneaky feeling that this wasn’t Jeffrey Palmer’s usual kind of drinking establishment.

‘A couple of whiskies, mate, and not any of that fucking knock-off either! I nearly lost the enamel off my teeth last time.’

Jermaine laughed. ‘I told you, man, if you’re putting Coca-Cola in it, you don’t deserve the good stuff. My old dad would turn in his grave if I allowed a decent Scotch to be diluted with that shit.’

Michael nodded. ‘He has a point, in all fairness, Jeffrey. But, when I come down here, I have to put something in the drinks – otherwise I would be flat out in no time.’

Jermaine grinned. ‘Call yourself a fucking Irishman?’

Jeffrey laughed with them. ‘Was your dad Irish then, Jermaine? I mean, with your name being O’Shay? It don’t get more Irish than that, does it?’

Jermaine brought the drinks to the table and, sitting down beside them, he answered, ‘My great-granddad was Irish, but it’s been all black since then.’

Jeffrey wasn’t sure how to react, and Jermaine could see that. He liked that he didn’t want to offend in any way. That showed him the man wasn’t racist – not outwardly anyway. Only time would tell.

‘If you go to Jamaica, everyone has some Irish in them somewhere. Some even have blue eyes. It’s fucking surreal. There are Patricks and Seans everywhere. We also like the Guinness – my mum used to call us the sunburnt Irishmen.’

Michael laughed loudly; he had heard this before, many times. He knew that Jermaine was proud of his Irish heritage, and even more proud of his Jamaican roots.