Stretch, 29. Damian Lanigan

was a filthy, masculine, merciless kind of laugh. ‘Right. There’s a customer. I’m off.’

      Part of me had thought that Henry had been making it all up. I contemplated sticking my head in the pizza oven, but instead went out to the bins for a bifter. I didn’t speak much to Sadie for the next hour or so, but every time she went past me she said: ‘Ah, the Great Poet fixes a drink,’ or, ‘See how the bard polishes the side plate.’ I was beginning to warm to her, to be honest.

      At eight, Bart dropped in with Brian. This was unusual. He would occasionally drop in early evening to put the wind up everyone but he wouldn’t dream of eating in one of his own restaurants. He sat at a table near the window looking agitated and summoned me over.

      ‘Stretch, how are we doing this week?’

      ‘Good. Ten grand easy already.’

      ‘How many shifts you done?’

      ‘Four so far. The normal.’

      ‘Fucking hell, Frank, why can’t you do me a few more? We take bigger when you’re on, guaranteed.’

      ‘Oh, you old softie. I can’t do any more. I’d go fucking mad. And you won’t pay me any extra. I’d have to be a nonce.’