“Just wondered who they are.”

“He fancied her,” said his mate. The others thumped the table.

“They’re brother and sister,” said Donald, trying to keep his voice neutral. “They won’t be here long. The council are trying to evict them.”

“Boo,” protested the surfer with the mop of blonde hair.

“So she’s not married, then?” Another one, leather necklace and hipster goatee.

Donald put on his stern publican face.

“I believe you’re about twenty years too young to be asking,” he said. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Oh come on.”

“She’s fit.”

“For an older woman.”

“Older women are the best.”

“Like you’d know.”

“Everyone needs a sugar-mama.”

“She’s got her own place.”

“You should go down there, Luke, see if she’ll invite you in for a coffee.”

“Yeah, why not? We’ll wait for you.”

“We bloody will not. If he’s off getting laid by some glamorous older bird he can make his own way home.”

Donald resisted the urge to turn the table over, wipe the idiot grins from their stupid donkey faces. Instead he cleared their plates with a face as still and impassive as the black rocks the town was built on. Slick and craggy and unforgiving, like the walls of the caves where he’d threatened to drown Finn. He could take down one of these arrogant young men instead, full of piss and vinegar, convinced the world and all its women were theirs for the asking… one of the lads glanced at Donald’s face and became quiet and still. The silence spread like a rash across the table, like a cloud of poison gas, leeching away the banter and leaving a quelled silence. Donald refused to make eye-contact. The stack of plates was precarious, he should have taken two trips really, but with care he could manage them.

As he left their table, he heard one of the boys say, low but clear, “Shit, you don’t think he fancies her himself, do you?”

The rage was so huge he nearly dropped the plates; but he’d been in this game a long time now, and the most important thing for a publican to be was composed. He took the plates through to the kitchen without a pause, passing Mike who was pulling a pint of Doom Bar, set the crockery down and loaded the dishwasher, neat and efficient, no gaps or misalignments. He found the tablets, unwrapped one and shut the door. Intensive clean, to scour away the curry sauce and leave the glasses bright and sparkling.

Then he took a deep breath, looked around the clean orderly kitchen, took another deep breath and kicked the steel side of the dishwasher so hard it rocked on its sturdy base, leaving a gigantic dent in the side.

The damage was almost enough, but not quite. He kicked it again, left another smaller dent. He expected it to shudder to a halt, but the pump powered manfully on, churning water and soap. Over the sound of sloshing, he heard the faint tinkle of a broken glass settling around the drain. Still not enough. His hand hesitated over a catering-sized bottle of ketchup. Heinz. Some bought cheaper brands and decanted them, but he’d never seen the point in scrimping on condiments. If he threw it at the wall, the stain would soak into the paintwork, leaving a lasting impression to go with the dented dishwasher.