‘This boy knows what he’s talking about,’ said Danny, thumping the table. ‘No more of this sort of chat, now. They’re lucky to have you.’

‘Aye, you were damn good tonight, sweetheart,’ said big Donald, mumbling through his beard.

At the bar, a little later, Danny tapped Neil on the elbow, smiled at him.

‘Listen, man, don’t worry about earlier. It’s just an artist thing, you know? When they come offstage they’re like great gaping wounds, basically – need to be treated very carefully. You know? Always better just to tell her she was wonderful, yeah?’

He was smiling. He was perfectly, totally reasonable. But Neil understood that he was being told off, that a flag had been raised.

‘Yeah, yeah. Got it. Sorry, man. Yeah.’

‘Good boy. Let me get this round, eh?’

All that night, back in his single room in the hotel, much nicer than anywhere else they’d stayed, Neil had fumed. They had begged him – begged him – to come on this tour. She had. She wanted this article. Made him wrangle with his editor, pitch harder than he’d ever pitched a piece before. Brought him here, away from work for the best part of a week. And what did she expect him to write, exactly? Two thousand glowing words about the landscape and the timbre of her voice? ‘Drinking Dens of Highland Towns: A Comparative Study’?

The next morning, he’d hung around in the breakfast room until Danny had come in, then taken a seat opposite him. Made his demands: interview. Now. Danny had patted the air again, looked genuinely worried, and Neil had climbed back upstairs to pack his holdall, feeling that the scale had finally been reset in his favour.

Clio and the boys were in the lobby, lounging about on sofas too well-upholstered for them when he came to check out, surrounded by their luggage and instruments. Her Doc Martens rested on a coffee table, and it was impossible to tell whether she was awake or not through her sunglasses; Sean was glaring at the world through a particularly greasy fringe, and Lee appeared to be skinning up on the back of a glossy magazine.

‘Morning, lad. There’s a bit of a hold-up, eh – Donald and Danny had to go and take the little bus to the bus hospital,’ he said, still cheery. ‘I’d go get yourself a cuppa if I was you – if you’re going over could you grab me a Bloody Mary, too?’

Neil smiled. ‘I’m all right just now, pal, but thanks for the concern.’

Lee beamed at him. ‘God loves a trier, mate. Actually, it’s good you’re here. With four of us we can get a proper game going.’ He shoved the pile of ripped-up Rizlas to one side and pulled a grubby deck of cards from the pocket of his cagoule.

‘Card games,’ said Clio, from behind the shades.