‘Well, he did ask me, didn’t he? And now look where we all are. It’s keeping things from people that brought all this on, like your keeping from me the fact you knew a lot more about my husband than you let on.’

As they left the car park, Alan pulled the car to a halt. He turned and glared at her, his face screwed up in anger.

‘I knew enough to blow your life wide open, I admit that, but it wasn’t any of my business, was it? You preferred to believe that your husband was a mixture of the Pope and the fucking Apostles. If I had told you the score you wouldn’t have believed me - and why should I have said anything to you anyway? Why the fucking hell should I, eh? What were you to me? Nothing, that’s what. You were just a mate’s old woman out to help him. I’m a villain, lady, not fucking Marje Proops! If your old man was batting away from home all those years, what reason would I have had to tell you all about it? Answer me that one if you can. Why would I have got involved in all that, eh?’

Donna looked into his face, her own eyes glittering in anger. ‘Get me home, Alan. I just want to go home.’

‘Oh, you want to go home, do you? Shall I tell you something? If you were my wife I’d slap your face for you. Because I have never, ever come across such a bolshie bitch in all my life. Just because you think you’re so fucking squeaky clean, you expect everyone else just to put their lives on hold, all for you. You think that Eric and me, and Jonnie H. and all the others, should all go: “Oh, dearie me, Georgio’s been a naughty boy. Let’s leave him in clink, shall we, chaps?” Well, I have the germ of an idea of how to fuck up the jump, and that’s all we can do now. Fuck the jump up. I think I can do that through Nick Carvello. But as for the rest of it, it goes ahead whether you like it or you don’t. Get that into your thick skull.