‘Oh Lord, save me,’ said Daz to anyone around him who was listening. ‘He thinks he’s a god.’

‘Not a god. Just a teacher, innit? A guru.’

‘The Beatles had gurus and it just meant that they went doolally on acid and made longer songs with less catchy tunes.’

Matty felt like the whole thing was a performance for an audience of mostly one. But it was fun, watching them pretend to argue, Gegsy grinning up at Daz with that slightly greasy smile.

Daz tutted. ‘Giz us a blast, then.’ Gegsy pressed play on his boombox and Daz looked intent for about five seconds before making a face like he’d just eaten a bad egg. ‘Oh my stars, no. That is not nice. Make it stop.’

‘It’s your music,’ said Gegsy.

‘My music? What does that mean?’

‘Black music. Your people.’

‘Trust me, you vagrant, these are not my people. My people wear sequins. My people sing.’ Daz put bunched fingers to his lips and threw them out in a star-shape. He focused on Matty, looking rather solemn. ‘This man is giving you a wayward education. Do not trust him as far as you can throw him.’

‘Why do you have to be such a bumboy all the time?’

‘Because that is me. It is the essence of Darren Reid.’ He kicked Gegsy’s hip. ‘Shove over. We’ve got company.’

Gegsy rolled over to make a sliver of space on the checked tablecloth that was spread underneath him. Matty sat down, legs crossed.

Daz took out a Pepsi from his cool box. ‘Last one. Gone a bit warm.’

‘I only have ten pee.’

‘Oh, go on then. For the little starveling.’ He put his hand out, before sitting down next to Matty with a short glance over. ‘Your parents are throwing caution to the wind, letting you run amok.’

Matty never ran here, and didn’t know what that last word meant. ‘My dad came here.’

‘Oh, yeah? He get you into it? Show you the wonder and the marvel?’

‘Yeah.’ Dad had, in his own way. Without realising it.

‘Well, he’s right to.’ Daz sat up, his long arms around his knees. ‘You’ll learn a lot from being here. You get all sorts. Every sort of man. Gays, straights and all the colours in between. Old boys who fought in the war, some who talk about it, some who keep quiet about it, some who’ve been coming since before the war, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers, and Gegsy.’

‘Cunt,’ said Gegsy, his eyes still closed.

Daz made a little buzzy sound with his lips, like he was shooing something.

‘He’s called Joe. My dad.’ There was always hope. Matty had not been doing enough to investigate. Getting distracted by Nicks. ‘Do you know him? He’s Irish.’ Is Irish. Was Irish.

Gegsy shook his head, a small, lazy movement.