Jack didn’t trust himself to speak. He caught the edge of his lip between his teeth and squeezed back his threatening tears. ‘Have you seen Mickey Jones here?’

‘Mickey? Aye, he’s down the end of the bar.’

Jack nodded and, leaving his bewildered friend behind, he fought his way through the crowd. He was beginning to think that Ben was mistaken when finally he saw him – sitting on the last stool, talking to a couple of lads Jack recognised from work. He felt a fury rise within him, a black rage that was hot and demanding. He wet his lips, his fists closing at his side.

‘Mickey. Mickey Jones.’

Distracted from his conversation, Mickey swivelled round on his bar stool. He had wide features blighted by a boxer’s nose, its broken bridge leaving his face looking creased. He brightened on seeing Jack.

‘Ye alreet, Jack?’

‘You’d better stand up, man.’

He let out a shout of laughter. ‘And why’s that?’

‘You’ve been messing with our Jenny.’

He chuckled, raising his hands in appeasement. ‘Well, a pretty lass like your Jenny is hard to resist, like.’

‘She’s dead, man.’

Mickey’s features flickered. ‘Dead?’

Jack took a step closer. He leant down until he was close enough to hiss in the man’s ear. ‘Aye, dead. Dead trying to get rid of the bairn you put inside her, you dirty bastard.’ He stood back. ‘Now stand up.’

But Jack didn’t wait for him to rise. Seeing guilt inhabit the man’s features, he darted forward and grabbing his waistcoat, dragged him from the stool. It tumbled to the floor with a tell-tale crash that instantly drew the attention of those around them, but Jack’s only hesitation was the time it took to draw back his fist before letting it fly. Mickey Jones’s head snapped back. He staggered, swiping drunkenly, but he was no match for the fury that fuelled Jack’s knuckles. Another blow to the jaw sent him reeling and it was only the steadying hands of the crowd around him that kept him on his feet. There was a sense of dark excitement in the hushed air, a bloodthirsty anticipation. Mickey dabbed at his mouth and stared at the blood that glistened on his fingertips.

‘Come on then,’ Jack goaded. ‘Let’s have you.’ And when the man failed to advance, he let out a holler and charged forward with such ferocity that the crowd about them fell back. Exposed, Mickey took the full force of Jack’s tackle; the two men sprawled onto the floor.

‘That’s enough!’ the publican cried out, jangling the bell behind the bar like a referee calling time. ‘That’s enough or I’m calling the coppers!’

The threat fell on deaf ears. The men grappled wildly until strong arms banded Jack’s chest and hauled him backwards. His feet scrabbled against the bar’s scuffed floorboards.