‘After you. First on your left,’ he said. ‘You going to wear that thing all night?’

She yanked her headscarf loose and tucked it in her sleeve.

‘That’s better,’ said the fella, head aslant. ‘Now he’ll see your lovely curls.’

She forged a smile and brushed right past him.

Through she went, into the brights of Wilson’s shop. The countertop below the till was made of glass, as in a jeweller’s, but instead of fancy rings and whatnot laid out for the customers to browse, there was a neat array of bulbs. More shapes and sizes than she would’ve thought possible. The carpet had gone bald where the attendants’ feet had worn it down over the years. A mess of paperwork was piled up on the shelves, beyond the view of customers. In the backroom to her left, she found the man himself. Wilson was perched on his desk between two stacks of ledgers with his shoe-heels swinging in the hollow underneath. He didn’t look at all as she’d imagined him, but no one ever did.

‘Good evening. You’re Mal Duggan’s girl, then, are you?’ His voice was throaty, and his Taffy accent thick. ‘He told me you were tall.’

‘He told me you were Welsh,’ she said. ‘I’m disappointed.’

There was a crack of laughter from behind her, where the ginger fella was now leaning with his hammer in the doorway.

‘Very good,’ said Wilson, ‘very good.’ He hopped down from the desk and offered her a ciggie from his silver case.

‘No thanks.’ For all she knew, he could’ve doused it in some sort of chemical.

‘Have a sit down there, why don’t you? Take the weight off for a bit.’

As he lit one for himself, he eyed her through the climbing smoke. The smell of the extinguished match was pleasing and it steadied her a bit. Wilson’s skin had deep marks from a bad spell of the chickenpox or pimples in his youth, which must’ve been a long time in the past. Everything about the man was either grey or white. His bony shoulders jutted, made his blazer hang too loosely at the middle. He styled his hair so fussily, a parting at the centre deep enough to hold a pencil.

‘Do you like my shop?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘It’s nice if you like lamps. Must cost you, though.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘To keep the leccy on all night.’

‘You’re right,’ he said, and ooed some fumes out in a ring. ‘It helps me shift the stock, though, and besides –’ He flicked his head up as a gesture to the fella at the door, who came inside. ‘We had these windows painted black all through the war. Then we had them boarded up as well. We’d get a breakage every other night. Attracted lots of bother from the wardens. Busybodies, all of them. When it was over, I decided to embrace the light, you know. And sod the cost. The punters like it. So do I now, come to think of it.’ He reached to knock some ash into the plant pot on his desk, then smiled at her. The gap between his two front teeth was oddly wide. ‘I believe you’ve brought me something, lovey. Are you going to let me have it?’