“… and we need to look at The Croc. Again.” Harry looking tense and edgy. The situation with the Brixton boys clearly giving him grief. Donald suspected he was getting hassle from higher up, which in turn meant pressure from Civvie Street. Girlie clubs were tolerated if they stayed quiet, classy and trouble-free. It didn’t look good to have a bunch of anxious, cocky rude boys rolling into town, flashing their cash and their blades, making the girls jittery and skittish and the (exclusively white, exclusively rich, usually middle-aged) punters uncomfortable. The whole situation was coming to a head nicely. If he’d been watching The Croc the way it needed watching, the Brixton boys would never have dared show their faces.

“It’s time we turned up the heat,” he said out loud. “Let these angry young men know where they stand. There’s only so much the door crew can do. What with political correctness and all.” He cracked his knuckles. “I’ll drop by this evening. Have a little talk.”

“What about The Lamp?” asked Harry.

“I’ll pick up The Lamp as well.”

“You after my job, Donald?”

“If I wanted it I’d already have it.”

“You sure you won’t have another childcare issue?” This, incredibly, from Ricky. The silence in the room was sour and tense. Ricky raised his hand to his mouth to bite his nail, then instead folded his arms across his chest. Donald glanced at Harry and saw, for a brief unforgivable moment, a flicker of doubt on his boss’ face.

“If I have a problem,” said Donald at last, “I’ll call on you, Ricky. You can come round to my house and do your monkey impression for my daughter. She’d like that very much.” He looked at Harry. “You happy, boss?”

Harry was still hesitating. This was not good. This was not good at all. This was potentially career-ending stuff.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said at last, and Donald could breathe again. “But Ricky, I want you along with Donald at The Croc, okay? Since you two are getting on so incredibly well today.”

The release of laughter, and everyone took deep breaths as their shoulders loosened up. Donald and Ricky glared at each other, then shrugged. Only one thing to be done: man up and cooperate.

In the alleyway opposite the unmarked door of the Blue Crocodile Club, Donald and Ricky stood and watched the nightlife and waited for the Brixton boys. The streets were full of pretty young things in silly little frocks, and handsome fresh-shaved city slickers trying to get into their knickers. A night full of promise, as long as what you’d been promised was sour wine and easy sex and a fistful of regrets in the morning. The air tasted warm and dusty.

“There.” Ricky nudged Donald hard in the arm. Five young men, bright-eyed and sharp-gestured, tracksuits and gold jewellery, a bad parody of gangsta chic. They weren’t the only black men on the street, but they were the only ones of whom you’d say, a gang of black youths.