Sefton was too intrigued now to get in her face again. Besides, a character shouldn’t be one note. Her straightforward aggression was a relief after the chill coming from the rest of this lot. Also, she’d chosen a non-racial approach this time. Presumably she’d exhausted that material. ‘I’m a complete fuckwit.’

Sudden mocking laughter erupted from behind Sefton. It sounded almost like a voice saying ‘ha ha ha’, in an extraordinarily cynical, almost self-critical way. ‘At least someone here knows themselves.’

Sefton turned to see that an extraordinary figure had joined the group. He looked middle-aged, with a face that made him look as if he had some sort of wasting disease, a skull that, under a shock of bright red hair, boasted handsome cheekbones and eyes that seemed continuously challenging, rolling and staring. Those eyes knew everything about him, in a moment. Sefton found the undercover part of him reacting, certain he’d been recognized, that somehow this man he’d never seen before knew who he really was. He had to stop himself from marching for the door, telling himself there was no logical reason to do so, that this still might just be a feeling. Besides, the look of the man had stopped him in his tracks. His jacket was made of newspaper, from enormous edifices of Victoriana to brash red-top headlines, flowing and changing. The pattern on the man’s trousers was a grid that resembled tartan, but it flexed like a topographical map. The man’s grin was increasing as he took in what Sefton was now absolutely bloody certain he’d learned about him. Never mind walking out; in a moment, Sefton might have to sprint.

‘Don’t mind me,’ the man said, ‘I’m not real.’

‘What do you mean?’