He blinked and opened his eyes to banish those bad thoughts. Today was not a day for any of them. As the felon revelled in his freedom and thanked his lucky stars, he heard footsteps behind him, and the clinking of glasses on a tray. She had returned with another pint of Old Hooky for him, the packet of pork scratchings he had asked for, and her own glass of orange juice.

As she sat opposite him, and the lichen-scarred table resettled their respective weights, she looked at him, her large pea-green eyes assessing him. She was smiling, but it looked like something she had only just learned to do, and was trying out for size. The warmth certainly did not reach those eyes. ‘So what are your plans, outside of the probation meetings?’ she asked.

‘Not too much, really. I’ve got forty quid of prison discharge cash, and I need to get the bank account open for my benefits. But after that, I shall probably spend most of the summer lying in my new garden trying to forget about everything.’

She hooked a hank of her long tea-coloured hair behind one ear and sipped her drink. She seemed even more nervous than he had been, looking left and right as more customers arrived at adjacent tables. Neville Rollason had only ever pretended to be attracted to women, even when he was married. It was only boys, and generally the subset that was slim, pale, shy and underdeveloped, that he desired. But now as Neil Wright he was able to see that slim, pale, boyish women were worth a look too. This one, he now decided, was beautiful, an almost ethereal Pre-Raphaelite. Late thirties, perhaps. He took a long draw at his beer, tipping the glass into the air, and felt the sweet cool malts caress his gullet.

He put the glass down and let his eyes wander her face. ‘So, are you married?’

Her face tightened, and he feared he shouldn’t have asked. She looked away as she muttered a reply. ‘Not any more, thank God.’

‘I’m surprised. I would have thought there would have been plenty of boyfriends.’

The flick of one eyebrow to no one in particular indicated that there was a story there of some kind, almost certainly a tragic one.

‘No kids?’

She looked at her watch. ‘I think we have to go soon.’

‘What about my gammon and chips?’ he asked. ‘You ordered it, didn’t you?’

‘And I paid for it,’ she said; then she leaned closer to whisper. ‘But we don’t actually have time. Plans have changed, and as I said, you are going to have to trust me.’

‘Aw, pet, I thought you were going to give me a kiss.’

She bridled and pulled back a little. ‘Neil, listen. As you are aware, there is quite a well-organised group called AVENGE, which is after you.’

‘I know. Bunch of bastards.’