The room was silent, save for Tony’s breathing and the thudding of his heart which he felt sure the others must be able to hear.

‘Hi, I’m looking to see if you’re still showing The Living Daylights?’

A pause. ‘You’re not,’ Duggan said, turning to glance at Tony.

Tony felt the room spin, placed his hand on the seat of the chair, to steady himself, swallowed dryly, the taste of whiskey in his mouth now sickening him, burning his throat and chest.

‘Tell me, was it running last weekend? Saturday night?’

Another pause, a held breath.

‘What time was the screening?’

Tony allowed himself a breath; at least it had been on.

‘That’s great, thanks.’

Duggan replaced the receiver and walked back to the desk.

‘8.15pm,’ he said as he passed the chair. Tony could smell stale sweat off the man and wondered whether, perhaps, he’d been put through the same form of questioning.

‘I was late,’ Tony explained. ‘I missed the opening.’

Mullan took a moment to consider the comment, looked to the man who shrugged.

‘Do you have your ticket there?’

‘Not on me,’ Tony said. ‘I probably binned it with my drinks cup.’

‘What did you think of the film?’ Mullan asked, pronouncing it ‘filum’ as everyone at home did.

‘It was all right.’

‘What’s the new guy like as Bond?’

Tony was wary one more, the innocuousness of the question the very thing that most frightened him. He had to assume that Mullan had seen it and was testing him.

‘He was good. A bit serious.’

‘The cello bit was a bit stupid,’ Mullan said, his tone friendly, laddish.

‘It was,’ Tony agreed. ‘The skiing down the mountain part.’

‘Did you speak to anyone about what we were planning with the cop?’ Mullan asked, the sudden shift in conversation jarring.

‘No!’ Tony said, mustering offence.

The man stepped forward, lifted the wooden bat and brought it down across his shoulders and neck.

Tony slumped forward onto the floor, screaming in pain.

‘Quiet, son,’ the man said. ‘Did you tell anyone?’

‘No!’

Another strike, this time across the back.

‘You must have said something. Your dad? Your mother?’

‘I swear!’ Tony shouted, flinching in expectation of another strike. Instead, the man kicked at him, the boot connecting with his knee.

‘I swear to God, son, if you’re lying to me, I’ll shoot your fucking da. He’s a coward anyway. All it’ll take is one phone call here and he’ll be done. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes,’ Tony said, gripping his knee.

‘Do you understand me?’ the man repeated, this time aiming his kick higher, to the groin.

Tony arched with the pain, his stomach heaving, and he vomited all over the plastic sheeting.

‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ he shouted, his abdomen aching. ‘I swear to God, I didn’t.’