‘Yeah, but it takes money, doesn’t it? I shouldn’t complain. I do okay. Even though my mum’s a single mum and works every hour she can to put food on the table, she’s always put me first. One day, when I’m rich and famous, I’m going to buy our flat from the council and give it to her as a present.’ He breathed in and did that trick with his tongue at the back of his throat that always made tears come to his eyes, before taking a tissue from his pocket and wiping them away. ‘Shit, what’s wrong with me?’ he asked, laughing a little. ‘Proper little cry-baby, aren’t I? All this fuss over my mum.’

‘It’s wonderful to see,’ said Jeremy, leaning forward and touching Achilles’ hand for a moment. ‘So many young people these days don’t think about their parents at all.’

‘Just a son you have, is it?’ asked Achilles, and he watched as the man struggled for an answer.

‘Yes,’ said Jeremy. ‘I’m … well, I’m a widower.’

‘Oh,’ said Achilles, feeling an unexpected stab of guilt. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you. It was a few years ago now. So I’ve been alone with my son ever since. And, not so long ago, my sister and her husband broke up, which has left my niece in a very troubled place, so I’ve been doing my best to look after her too. But that’s the modern world, isn’t it? Nothing lasts for ever, it seems. But look, let’s not talk about them. You don’t want to be bored senseless by my problems.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Well, I do. Will you have another drink?’

‘If you’re having one, yes. I don’t want to keep you, though, if you have plans.’

‘I don’t have any plans,’ said Jeremy with a smile. ‘I’m all yours.’

Achilles broke into a wide grin, a flash of white teeth dazzling the older man. ‘Then I’m all yours too, Jeremy. Same again, please. And this time, tell Peggy Mitchell there’s two ingredients in a rum and Coke, yeah? Not just one. Cheers, ears.’

@TRUTHISASWORD

In her bedroom, Elizabeth made her way along the bookshelves, convinced that she would find innumerable works of poetry there that she could take downstairs to prove to her father just how wrong he had been. Running her finger along the spines, though, all she discovered was the first three volumes of the Harry Potter series, the first two of His Dark Materials, a complete collection of Mallory Towers and a hardback series of classic nineteenth-century novels, not one of which had ever been opened. Next to them were eight works of fiction and non-fiction by Katie Price, each one well thumbed and much loved.

I could be a poet, she told herself, refusing to be bowed by her apparent lack of interest in the form. She sat down at her desk and removed a piece of A4 paper from her printer before taking a pen from a drawer. Within two minutes she’d composed the following: