He swept up the shot first: neat dark rum that lingered in his throat. He swigged at the pint next, smacking his lips while the heat from the rum spread through his chest.

‘Who won?’ A stool scraped next to him, then creaked under the weight of a man taking the seat. Looking down, Danny could only see thick thighs in grey suit trousers over two-tone shoes: tan with a streak of blue through the middle that made Danny think of a classic car interior. Danny raised his eyes to the TV screen above them. He’d picked the barstool in front of the television out of habit, but had only been vaguely aware of the football match showing. It had passed him by as a fuzz of green and an occasional word breaking through from familiar-sounding commentators, like having old friends talking to each other in a room while you sat on the periphery.

‘No idea, mate.’ Danny’s words were his first for a while and they made the roof of his mouth itch.

‘I know you!’ the man said, suddenly seeming animated, pleased with himself. Danny lifted his head to look higher than the thighs: a grey suit jacket matched the trousers, wrapped round a man in his late forties maybe. He wore a white shirt that was hanging open and crinkled like it had given up a tie. An expensive-looking watch gripped his wrist, the metal strap and matching cufflinks catching the light as he ran his fingers over pursed lips that stood out from a patchy-grey beard. He was tanned too, despite it being February.

‘Don’t think so, mate,’ Danny replied.

‘Evans, right? Danny Evans!’ Danny felt himself grimace. He’d come to hate the sound of his own name, especially when it meant he had been recognised. ‘You played football for the town, the captain! You did a few seasons up at the Gills too, right? You’re a legend round here.’

‘Legend,’ Danny snorted. He’d never felt further from the word.

‘I’m right though, aren’t I?’

‘I’ve played a bit. Not no more, though.’

‘That’s a shame. I used to get up Crabble a lot, me and my little girl. You were her favourite player, a proper no-messing centre-half. “The Beast”, right? They called you that after someone bit a piece of your ear off and you played on. I remember the pictures, you were covered in claret.’

‘That was a long time ago and it was just a nick.’

‘A nick! Still living up to the name, I see. How about I get your next beer? You know, as a thank you.’