“Would you like to order some food from us at all today, sir?” A smooth young man hovered at his elbow, the faintest hint of patronage in his voice as he took in Donald’s crumpled suit and crumpled face. Donald took in his opponent with one smooth swift glance (pretty-boy face, gym-bunny physique, flawlessly encased in a tight white t-shirt and tighter black jeans) and felt a surprising wickedness stir within him.

“Would I like to order some food from you at all today,” Donald repeated. “Would I like… to order… some food… from you… at all… today.”

“Our specials today are the scallops with ginger and spring onion for the starter, and the Thai crab cakes with sweet chilli sauce for the main, and our soup of the day is ham hock with split peas.”

“Ham hock and split peas. Imagine.”

The boy was looking at him differently now, his smile tight and frantic. “Or, um, maybe just another coffee?”

“Or,” said Donald, “and this is just an idea, mind you – is it okay if I suggest an idea?”

“Of course, by all means.”

“Thank you.” Donald deliberately stretched his lips a little wider than was comfortable. “So, here’s my idea. My idea is that you leave me with the menu, and then come back in a few minutes, and ask me once I’ve had time to take in what’s on offer. Is that okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“So we’re both happy, then?”

“Yes, definitely happy.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re both happy.” Donald took the menu, enjoying the way the boy flinched. His years of being professionally slightly scary were so far behind him that he’d forgotten how much fun it could be to do it on an amateur basis. The boy scuttled away to the bar, where Donald could see him commiserating with the girl who’d sold him his coffee. Frightening a boy that young and green was like shooting fish in a barrel. No challenge to it, but amusing enough if you’d had a bad day. You have to make your own fun in this world, he thought, and peered at the menu.

He was getting old; he’d reached the age where he had to adjust the distance before he could focus. Fancy soups, fancy sandwiches, overpriced steak, chicken wrapped in one thing and stuffed with something else. He wasn’t sure if he was hungry or not – that annoying in-between state where you could eat, but would regret it later, because by three in the afternoon you’d be starving again and you’d end the day having crammed in a whole extra meal. He was definitely putting on weight. The husband on the other table was trim and rangy. Donald glimpsed his own reflection in the window – a grim-faced thug hunched over a menu as if it was the first time he’d seen such a thing.

Oh, what the hell. He’d have the ham sandwich, plus chips and a side order of guilt. At the other table, the man tried to take his wife’s hand.