‘Another?’ said the cheery voice of the lad working the bar. He had a creased shirt and lank hair that caught the light, held back by a black hairband. Danny couldn’t help but notice how the barman behaved differently when talking to Danny compared to those that came in to eat as a family: like they were mates, kindred spirits with an understanding. Not like those other decent people with ironed shirts and homes to get back to at a reasonable hour. At least he seemed to have finally got the message that small talk was off the table. Danny wasn’t in a bar for conversation, it wasn’t even about the drink. The truth was far worse: he went there because he had nowhere else to go.

Danny nodded.

‘With a chaser?’ Lank hair tapped his watch as if to communicate that it was that time of night – they’re mates, see? They understand each other. Danny should say no. This should be a wakeup call, he should look around, realise what he had become. Instead he just gave another nod. Lank hair turned away. A couple of minutes later, a fresh pint was placed in front of him, then a dark rum shot next to that. Danny reached out to press the glass where the bubbles of his beer raced to the surface. He felt a sudden sense of déjà vu. This felt like the exact same moment as last night when he had been interrupted.

‘Ten p.m.’ The words that fell from Danny’s lips were almost involuntary. He straightened up to look around, as if the suited man might reappear to offer the same promise of answers. Instead it was the barman who made a beeline back to him.

‘Did you say something?’

‘Sorry … no,’ Danny replied. He checked his watch. When he’d got back from the hospital he’d read over the note again, even going so far as to run the postcode through a mapping application on his phone. It had come up with a location he knew well enough, walking distance from Crabble – Dover Athletic’s home ground and his place of work. The last line still read like a strapline from a ‘B’ movie: Follow the light. This was what had prompted Danny to screw the note up as tight as he could and throw it into the bin. Sharon was right. She was always right. That was another part of the reason she could make him so angry. This guy would be some con-artist who’d read about him in the paper or picked up what he could online. He would want something from Danny, he just hadn’t pitched it yet. No one did anything for free.