Woody stood there swaying for a few seconds and then with every ounce of control he could muster he slowly walked across the newsroom, his head held high and his eyes fixed on the purple door that led to the stairs and the street and the pub. There was only one thing he wanted, other than a double Bells, and that was to get out of the room with what little dignity he had left intact. He almost made it. He didn’t notice the overflowing wastepaper bin and he crashed over it and sprawled against the door. He pushed the door but it wouldn’t budge so he pushed harder and then he saw the sign that said ‘Pull’ and cruel laughter billowed around him as he eventually staggered out into the corridor.

He headed for the sanctuary of the King’s Head but realised that there would be other reporters there, probably knocking back Perrier with the way his luck was going, so instead he walked to the Coach and Horses. They wouldn’t cash cheques for him there, not since the bank had bounced one, but at least he wouldn’t be laughed at.

It started to rain so he put up the collar of his coat and hunched his shoulders and he stuck close to the wall until he reached the pub. It was fairly busy with closing time fast approaching, but Woody knew that the landlord paid little attention to the licensing laws and that it would be many hours before the last customer left. He took off his coat and shook it before hanging it up by the fruit machine.

‘Evening, Woody,’ said the barman, a teenager whose name Woody couldn’t remember. ‘Usual?’

Woody nodded and the barman poured a double Bells. A woman sitting on a stool looked at the Bells bottle and then up at Woody. She shuddered. ‘You should try a real whisky,’ she said. She was sitting next to a man in a brown leather jacket and they both had glasses of amber fluid in front of them. Woody reached for his glass and toasted them.

‘This will do me fine,’ he said, and drained it in one.

‘Now I’ll have one of whatever they’re having, and one each for them, too,’ Woody said, mentally calculating how much he had in his wallet. They were drinking a ten-year-old malt the name of which Woody didn’t recognise but it was smooth and mellow and warmed his chest. He fell into amiable conversation with the couple, talking about the weather, about Docklands, about the Government, anything but what he’d seen that evening.

They asked him what he did and he told them he was a journalist. Her name was Maggie and his was Ross, he sold fax machines and she worked for an insurance company.

As the level of whisky in the bottle dropped Woody began opening himself up to them, about how unhappy he was in his job and his plans for a new life in Los Angeles. An old pal of his had gone out to LA a couple of years ago and had set up an agency specialising in showbiz features and oddball stories for the tabloids, and he’d been pestering Woody to go out and join him.