‘Mr Stephens, Mr Dawson, please sit down. This won’t take a moment. Thank you for choosing the Underworld. The first thing I’m going to need from you is a three-hundred-pound deposit, cash or credit card, against your tab at the bar. You leave that with me, and the girls who’ll be attending to you this evening will let me know how much of that you’ve used in services; if you go over, you can top up with them. Anything left – and we all hope there won’t be, I’m sure, because we’re looking to provide you with a good time – will be refunded to you on your departure. Now, you’re not on a clock; please don’t feel rushed, and just to let you know the way we operate: after you’ve chosen the girl or girls who’ll be attending to you, the first thing she or they will do is take a long relaxing shower with you. During that, she or they will just make sure that you’re as healthy as you gentlemen appear to be.’

‘She’s saying they’ll check us down for creepy crawlies, yeah?’ Costain looked over to Sefton, sprawled beside him on the very Eighties sofa, their legs way apart, their clothing once again that of the small-time gang soldiers they’d spent a lot of their careers pretending to be.

‘Let’s get this done.’ Sefton took out two rolls of cash and gave them to this businesslike middle-aged woman in an evening gown. ‘You available?’

‘Not this evening, though if you become regular customers, perhaps I might make an exception.’ Her voice, thought Costain, was exactly what he was used to from hookers, just enough acting to let everyone stop worrying about what was real and what wasn’t, but not the full commitment that might lead to doubt. He felt aroused at that familiar timbre and immediately guilty for it.

*   *   *