‘I just – I really hope you’re right.’

Clio’s young boyfriend was weaving between the tables, his beautiful amber eyes stoned and shining for her. She rose, put her arms around his neck and he dipped her backwards for a kiss. She winked at Simon over his shoulder as she rose again.

‘Hamza, my love, this is Simon with the lovely speaking voice. We’re hanging out with Simon for the rest of the night. He’s sad, and he shouldn’t be. Have you got a little present for us?’

‘You know I have. Come and get it.’

She fished inside his suit jacket and extracted a little polybag of white powder, magician-quick, tucking it into her sleeve, then grabbed at Simon’s wrist gently but firmly. Her hand found its way into his, her fingernails painted shiny iridescent purple, glittering in the party lights.

‘Come on, babe. Let’s go celebrate the momentous occasion of your rebirth, like people with fuck all responsibility should.’

NEIL

Glasgow, 23 January 2018

Gogsy had answered his phone the same way for decades now. Crisp, irritated intonation, ‘Gordon Duke.’ Every time. Even after he got a mobile phone that showed him the name of the caller on the screen.

‘Hi, Gogs. How are you, man?’

‘Is that you, Neil?’

Oh, you know fine well it’s me, Neil thought. Stop this.

‘A wee bit early, is it not? What can I do for you today?’

There was something sad about Gogsy these days. He’d lost his seat in the SNP general election putsch two years ago, to a woman, of all things. He’d been far too easy a target for the vitriol aimed at the Labour Party post-referendum, because he’d bought into the party mindset far too much by this time. Neil saw him on television not long after his defeat talking about the ‘post-truth’ age the electorate were living in, where truth meant Labour, meant Gordon Duke.

Like Clio, Gogsy would only contact Neil when he wanted a story placed, so they hadn’t seen much of each other in the last two years. The suit was as sleek as ever, the hair as thick and silvery, the sovereign rings as prominent, but he’d deflated, somehow, no longer commanded a room just by entering it. Faces did turn, eventually – he was still a former cabinet minister, had been regularly on television for ten years – but once they registered him, turned back.

‘Nobody from the paper come here any more, then?’

‘There’s nobody from the paper left, Gogs.’

‘Christ.’

It was ten in the morning. They drank.

‘Off the record, Neil, the now. But what a stupid, stupid lassie. To do a thing like that.’

‘Aye.’

‘Stupid waste.’

‘Aye.’