So Donna had been to see Alan, and now the ball was well and truly rolling.

Georgio started to sing to himself.

Alan Cox opened his eyes slowly. The room was in darkness. Getting out of bed, he padded naked to the window and pulled back the curtains. The reason he liked living in Soho was because the place never really shut. Even at seven-fifteen in the morning it was already buzzing. Street cleaners were milling around, early-morning stragglers, toms as well as doormen, were moving through the streets, and the shop-keepers were already cashing up. He stretched and yawned, his long body feeling the ache of his advancing years even as its youthful firmness belied them.

He turned back to the bed and frowned.

Lally was twenty-nine, though she swore she was only twenty-two. She had been his girlfriend on and off for two years. Earlier in their relationship, he had made the mistake of giving her a key. She had been there already, fast asleep, when he had trundled home in the small hours, and he had been too tired to throw her out.

‘Come on, Lally, up you get.’

She turned in the bed, displaying a small breast. Her short red hair was spiked and ruffled. She looked very lovely. Sighing, knowing the signs so well, Alan went out to his kitchen and made a pot of coffee. As it perked he savoured the aroma of the Colombian brew and set out two mugs.

Alan enjoyed the early morning, being able to get up without restrictions, no waiting for someone to unlock the door, no sharing with a big hairy-arsed scouser. Since being released from prison he had guarded his freedom with a fervour that Lally and others of her ilk had found hard to understand.

Taking a mug of coffee through to the bedroom, he placed it on the night table and shook Lally gently awake.

‘Come on, wake up, love. I’ve got to get moving in a little while. Got a busy day.’

Lally opened one eye carefully, shutting it immediately against the harsh daylight. Alan could see the lines appearing around her mouth and eyes.

‘You look rough, girl, you should lay off the gear.’

‘Piss off, Alan. It’s too early in the morning for lectures, even from you.’ She sat up in the bed, making no attempt to hide her nakedness.

‘Give me a cigarette, Al.’

He passed her a pack from her handbag, which she had dumped on a chair by the window. She lit up and breathed the smoke deeply into her lungs. As the coughing attack hit her, Alan shook his head.

‘You abuse yourself, Lally, but you know that, don’t you?’

She nodded her head, coughing with all her might, her face red with the effort. ‘Cup of tea and a cough, the great British breakfast!’

Alan picked up the mug and gave it to her. ‘This is coffee, Lally. You don’t drink tea, remember?’