In the bar earlier, Danny had oiled the conversation, buying rounds of drinks for everyone out of the tiny jar of takings from that night, kept everyone up, egged them on, determined, it seemed – he definitely wasn’t imagining it – to keep Neil from getting any sort of meaningful time with Clio. Was he jealous? A man like that, the satyr, the fanny-magnet, jealous of someone like Neil? Perhaps he sensed Neil’s connection with Clio – perhaps that was getting to him. He couldn’t imagine there was much going on between them besides shagging. Danny didn’t seem the socialist sort to him, didn’t seem like he had any convictions at all beyond the getting of money. Greasy prick. Oh, he’d do well in life, Neil had no doubt.

In his anger, Neil had forgotten to shake himself, had to climb the stairs and hobble his way back along the corridor with his hands cupped over the slow-blooming stain on his crotch. He was about to turn the corner, but a shaft of light cut through his vision and he froze against the wall. A female figure, silhouetted, some loose thin thing flowing over her upper body, doubling and pulling back. The pointed goatee. The hooves. Neil was sure he could see cloven feet. The small sound of a kiss, the click of a door as the light shut off. Danny was lying in the lower bunk by the time Neil got down the corridor, apparently asleep.

Their days on tour, in a beaten-up old minibus that had been the property of a community centre, had a particular rhythm. The two Scouse boys lolled along the back seat, lost together, talking their own codes, passing a joint back and forth. Between that and the sharp smell of last night’s whisky from everyone’s breath, the air in there was overbearing. Neil cracked a window whenever he could, but the wind was too much if they were on the motorway. The boys would get restless if they hadn’t had a drink by two, so pubs and off-licences needed to be sought out regularly. They raided garages for crisps and sweets, all of them eating like children let loose on a tuck shop.

As they drove, Clio consumed newsprint like food, stocking the bus with five papers every day, occasionally ripping out stories, tutting and exclaiming, fizzing with anger. Nobody really spoke. Neil and Clio had had a bit of a gossip, sure, the first time she was sitting in the back with him – she’d asked after Gogsy ‘or the Right Honourable Member, as I hear we’re now to call him. Labour Party, eh? Who’d have guessed?’ (wink) and his new wife – but they were both too conscious of the silence, the four other people right there, listening in, to say much.