I draped his coat across his shoulders and started hustling him out the door. On the way I quietly took his spare house keys off the peg and slipped them into my jeans pocket. I’d come back later maybe and sort out the dog.

I pulled my hood down over my mask, and we walked together to the end of the street. It was a wet night, late now, and the pavements glistened. No one passed us. They were all in their houses with the curtains drawn, sticking the kettle on for one last cup of tea before bed. If anyone had seen us, sure we were just two tipsy messers going off to a fancy-dress party. I stopped outside Big Jacky’s shop and took out the keys I had borrowed from Phyllis.

‘Why are we stopping here? This is a newsagent’s,’ he said.

‘He’s waiting downstairs,’ I said, and I shoved him through the door and hustled him downstairs into the cramped, gloomy cellar where Big Jacky used to keep the cleaning supplies and the extra stock. I saw Phyllis had been keeping it in order, full marks to her. It was crammed with stacked boxes of Tayto crisps and Kit-Kats.

‘He’ll be in here in a minute,’ I said, ‘but he wants you to wear this across your eyes.’ I took out a long, clean rag from my pocket, to use as a blindfold.

‘I don’t fucking want to wear that,’ he said, furiously. He started shoving his shoulders around again, roaring and kicking boxes at me, trying to trip me over and knock off my mask. I knew exactly why he didn’t want to put it on. It’s the kind of thing they make people wear before they get shot.

‘Shut up,’ I hissed at him. ‘He’s bringing a friend from England. The fella doesn’t want you to see his face before you hear what he’s got to say.’ I threw in some more flannel for his drunken logic to tangle with: ‘He doesn’t want a witness before he’s got a deal. If you can get through this, there might be some decent money in it for you.’

He quietened down then and let me tie it on him, knotting it tightly. I guided him to an old brown chair in the corner, a recliner with padded, threadbare cushions, and pushed him back on to it: he sank down almost gratefully. I remembered sitting on it as a child, as Big Jacky did the accounts. If you leaned right back on it a footrest zapped out, and it felt a bit like a bed. Or a boat, or an aeroplane, or whatever I wanted it to be. Today: a little prison, maybe.

‘Cup of tea?’ I said.

There was a kettle and a mini-fridge at the back.