I looked straight ahead, pretended I wasn’t aware of her outstretched hand. ‘You earned it. Nic will have you behind the bar every night if I’m not careful.’ I smiled.

She hesitated. ‘We can split it?’

I shook my head. ‘It’s fine. Just—’ I realised I was still holding the card. Chief financial officer. MBA. Some other initials I used to understand but didn’t anymore, a hotel name and room number scrawled in black ink across the middle. I threw it into the bin and wiped my hand on my apron. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’

‘Okay,’ the newb said, as she tucked the note into her pocket. ‘Thanks.’

I nodded, let my eyes close as she walked away. My chest felt impossibly tight, and it was hard to breathe. I could hear Emma talking to someone, laughing, the kitchen bell, the door swinging open and closed, a coffee cup hitting a saucer at slightly the wrong angle, but I wasn’t there. I was in the laneway a few doors up, pinned to the wall, surrounded by the stench of stale beer and onions. Thrill kills, they called them, when those nice boys did them. A game gone too far. A tragedy, so many young lives ruined, futures ruined. They’d never get good jobs with something like that on their records.

‘You okay?’

I opened my eyes, let them adjust to the light, let them find my place. Medium Tom was sitting at the bar, in a green shirt this time.

My mouth opened to tell him I was fine but nothing came out. He frowned, a question mark forming between his eyebrows.

‘I will be,’ I said instead. I would, I told myself, straightening, touching the bar. Solid. Always solid.

He nodded. ‘Good.’

‘Drink?’

‘Thanks.’

I turned around, looking for the right bottle. It wasn’t where it was meant to be.

‘Those guys come out of here?’

I blinked, found it by the gins, pulled it out. My heart was still thumping. ‘What?’

‘There were some—’ I turned, and he stopped talking. He was watching me, his expression strange, thoughtful. ‘Never mind.’

I smiled—tried to—put down a napkin, a glass. ‘It’s fine,’ I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. Poured the whisky, probably too much, my eyes focusing on the glass and beyond that his elbow, the green of his shirt perfect against the dark timber of the bar. When I looked up it was like looking at a picture in a magazine, the pendant over the register lighting up his face. ‘We get them all the time.’

‘Yeah?’