She returned to the shed. ‘Who d’you reckon then?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘Who dobbed us in? It was him, wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t reckon. Whatever else, he’s not that sly. He’d tell you.’

‘Ron?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Or maybe the Ford people?’ She came into view, studying her back fence, the lane, the windows of the big factory. ‘They weren’t hurtin’ no one,’ she called.

‘Mum, it wasn’t them.’

‘Mighta been. Quarter of a century, not so much as a wave.’ She leaned over, gathered the last of the weeds and returned to the fire. This time, Peter followed her, and they stood watching the flames.

‘Doug?’ he said.

She took a moment. ‘No.’

He looked at her.

‘Les, perhaps. He’s complained before, remember, about cats hangin’ round his birds.’

‘No, not Les.’

‘Well, it had to be someone.’

‘So I stood havering in that moorland dim …’

‘Out of place,’ I said.

Curtis didn’t care. ‘Just break, Whelan.’

So I broke. Pocketed the seven and smiled. ‘Should we put some money on it?’

He was confident, but not particularly able, and he knew it. Still he couldn’t resist. ‘One dollar.’

‘One?’ I almost laughed. ‘So you’re sure you’re gonna lose?’

‘Two.’

‘Come on.’

‘I would if I could, but I don’t have it.’

‘Fine.’ I took another shot. Got the one in. Then, again, but missed. We shook hands.

‘Two dollars,’ I said.

‘Perhaps.’

The Gleneagles pool hall sat at the top of North East Road, surrounded by car dealerships, a tile display centre, a lawyer (specialising in divorces and custody) and a few old houses left to rot in a cloud of monoxide. There were thirty or so tables, crammed in, and the place was dark all day.

‘The first quick zest that filled me to the brim.’

Why? Because Curtis had told me this place was the reason Dante picked up a quill. The Circles of Hell. The Damned lying in torment. We’d never been able to work it out. Dozens of men playing pool in the middle of sunny, productive weekdays. Apparently, not everyone had to work.

‘A friend of mine, who is not Fortune’s Friend, is hard beset upon the shadowy coast; terrors and snares his fearful steps attend.’

‘How much have you memorised?’

‘Nearly finished Cantos II. But eventually, the whole thing.’

‘Why?’

‘Can’t you see, Clemmy? That’s the world described. You wanna understand it, remember it. Don’t forget it. Cos they’ll try make you.’

‘Who?’

He took a shot. ‘They. They’ll have you working, and you’ll have a nice house and car and you’ll think, I’ve got it all, but really, you’ve got nothing.’

I guessed he was right. Why else would the Mail be trying to convince us that happiness was Berber with free underlay?

‘And in the end,’ he said, ‘the profits go to the mortgage-makers.’