Then one night in the club, something strange happened. It was an evening like any other, Madonna on the sound system, people laughing and dancing and ordering drinks while the dancers swirled and twirled on their underlit podiums beside the packed strobe-lit dance floor. Angel was serving people one after the other, hardly noticing their faces, picking up beer mats, wiping down the bar, and then someone grabbed her wrist.

Angel looked up, startled. The man who was still holding on tight to her was ugly in the extreme and huge, with a long acne-scarred face and a mess of grey hair. His eyes were cold, unblinking.

She flinched back. His massive hand on her wrist was bruising, hurtful.

‘What are you doing?’ Angel demanded, trying to pull away. He held on tight. She felt a shiver of fear run through her despite the fact that she was in a crowded place, surrounded by other people.

‘Let go,’ she said, loud and clear.

He didn’t take any notice. He leaned in, closer. Angel wanted to back away, but she couldn’t. She saw other punters looking, then carefully looking away. They didn’t want to get involved. She glanced left and right, her eyes searching hopefully for Tim and Nigel the doormen, but they weren’t inside the club right now, they were out by the main door. She couldn’t see Tom, and for the moment the other two bar staff were out of sight, in the stockroom.

The man leaned in toward her. She could feel the heat coming off him, could smell his sour breath. He leaned in closer. Then closer still. Then he said, right by her ear: ‘I got a message for you from Frank Pargeter.’

Who?

She stared at him, bewildered. She didn’t know any Frank Pargeter.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, thinking that he was drunk or drugged – and that tomorrow her wrist was going to be black and blue.

He took no notice of that.

‘Listen, girly.’

Angel’s eyes were wide with fright. ‘What?’

‘This ain’t over. Mother to daughter or to any fucker in the O’Brien clan, this goes on. You got that?’

He let go of her wrist. Angel stumbled back, clutching at the bar top. Her wrist throbbed. The man drew away, merging back into the crowds around the bar. Then someone touched her shoulder and she let out a shriek. It was Tom.

‘Something up?’ he asked.

Angel was frowning. This ain’t over . . .

What wasn’t over?

‘No. No, I’m fine,’ she said, thinking that the man had been off his head on something. What had been that name he’d said? Frank Pargeter? It meant nothing to her, but sounded oddly familiar.

‘Punters are waiting,’ said Tom.

Angel nodded and went back to the bar. ‘Who’s next?’ she asked, dry-mouthed, while her wrist burned. The man was gone. Slowly she calmed down. Her heartbeat slowed. Just some nutter.

It was nothing.

Nothing at all.