Dale laughed again. Blinked again. It was always a bit of a relief, to be liked. ‘Get you another one of those?’ He gestured towards the bottle.

‘No, I’ve got to drive. Thanks.’

‘Park it here, Bobby won’t mind.’ He grinned and thumbed at his lip again. ‘Maybe.’

Or I could come back to yours, Matty thought, trying to judge it. A mug of tea. Maybe he’d know how to make a hot toddy. Would like turning his radiators up high, wearing only T-shirts indoors.

The door opened, Dale’s friend coming back in, shouting, ‘Good fucking luck to you and all, pal’ into his phone, before stabbing at it with his forefinger, and putting it back to his ear. ‘Hello? You there? Hello?’

‘Is it nice, like?’ Dale said. ‘In London?’

‘It’s … yeah. It can be.’

The friend had suddenly quietened, putting his palm over his phone, watching them.

‘Looks a bit mad,’ said Dale. ‘Isn’t everyone a rude fucker?’

‘No, just in a hurry. That’s all.’

‘I should go on over some time. Check it all—’

His friend was jabbing him on the shoulder. You could smell the stout and fags on his breath from here, combined with something more rancid. ‘Can I have a word with you?’ It came out as wid ya.

Dale left his bottle on the bar and followed him to a pillar at the end of the room, fists going into his pockets. The older man was clearly in charge. Matty didn’t turn round, but it was easy enough to hear the jagged half-whispers, enough to make every muscle go still.

‘What are you doing?’

‘What?’

‘What are you doing?’ The friend lowered his voice, the words pushed through a very small space. ‘He’s fucking gay.’

Time to leave. Matty hooked forefinger and thumb around the beer bottle and quickly slid off the barstool. No eye contact.

There was a pause, filled only by the commentator’s voice on the TV rising as a free kick went over. Dale’s voice was small. ‘What do you mean, he?’

The sound of the away crowd, a chant falling into another chant, the claps eventually coming together to form a pattern. The two of them were glancing over, the back of Dale’s neck reddening.

Matty was already halfway out of the door.

Light on. Two hot-water bottles. Gas ring. De La Soul on the CD Walkman. Music that wasn’t aggressive, posturing, as Matty often liked. This was gentle, lullaby hip-hop.