.

alcohol-soaked breath.

      ‘Sorry,’ the Ratman manages. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

      ‘Shut the fuck up, okay? I’ve had enough of your whining and your whimpering. You’re pathetic, do you hear me? You make me sick.’ Up close the Ratman’s stink is overpowering, the smell of decay and piss and hopelessness. ‘Do I look like a queer?’

      ‘No,’ he says, then adds a shaky: ‘Sir.’

      ‘No, sir, is right,’ I tell him.

      Without warning I head-butt him full in the face. He stays upright for a second, blood spurting from his nose, then folds to the ground. The Invisible Ones stir in the shadows but nobody comes to help. When you’re this far down you are really and truly on your own. I rip off the Cossack hat, grab him by the hair and pull him to his feet, punch him twice in the face. Two sharp jabs. Steam rises from the front of his trousers and tears streak his dirty cheeks.

      ‘Don’t kill me,’ he whimpers. ‘Please don’t kill me.’

      I’m so close I can smell the fear, the heat coming off his face. I want to kill him, I really do; I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life. I let go and he drops to the ground. He’s trembling all over, nothing but a pathetic bundle of rags. I hunker down, crouching at eye level to get a better look. His sunken eyes are big and wide, the tiny spark in the pupils might be hope. His eyes lock with mine and the spark flickers, fades then disappears. He’s convinced I’m going to kill him.

      I stand up and walk away. Behind me, The Invisible Ones are leaving the safety of the shadows, cautiously making their way towards their fallen comrade. I don’t need to turn around to confirm that help is the last thing on their minds. Even this far down there’s someone worse off than you, someone you can take advantage of, even if it’s just to steal a pair of odd worn shoes and a battered old Cossack hat.

       10

      ‘Come on, Paul, wake up.’

      Aston wished the voice away and rolled over on the sofa with a cold leather squeak. Shivering, he pulled the thin jacket in tight and buried his head under a cushion. A hand grabbed his shoulder and tried to drag him back around. He buried himself deeper into the sofa, resisting the insistent pull, telling himself this wasn’t happening.

      ‘Don’t you dare turn your back on me, Paul. We need to talk.’

      A shiver ran up Aston’s spine. We need to talk. Those four words always spelled trouble. And lately that’s all she seemed to want to do … talk. Laura sure knew how to pick her moments. It was way too early to deal with this.

      ‘Stop pretending to be asleep. I know you’re awake.’

      The hand became a fist that pounded against his arm. The blows weren’t hard and he swiped blindly, swatting as though they were mosquitoes.

      ‘You’re going to sit up now. And you’re going to talk to me. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.’

      ‘Leave me alone,’ Aston mumbled into the sofa. ‘Need more sleep.’

      Laura stopped hitting and started shaking again, using both hands this time, gripping hard enough for Aston to feel her fingernails digging into his arm ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘Let me get my act together, eh? I don’t think that’s too much to ask. What time is it anyway?’

      ‘Just gone half seven.’

      ‘And you want to talk now? Jesus, Laura, can’t this wait?’

      ‘No, it can’t wait, Paul.’

      Aston rolled over and lay on his back for a moment, psyching himself up. It was all coming back to him. Slowly. After leaving the laptop with Mole, George suggested they find a late bar. Aston hadn’t needed much persuasion. Making up for lost time, they’d started with doubles then hit the trebles. It was around this point that everything became a bit hazy. Aston opened his eyes and sharp sunlight pierced his brain, making his head spin and his stomach churn. He was still fully dressed: his tie a loose noose around his neck, the tail trailing over his shoulder; shirt and trousers wrinkled and smelling like a wino’s. His jacket was a crumpled mess and nowhere near thick enough to deal with the morning chill. There was a half empty bottle of JD by the side of the sofa. Presumably he’d carried on drinking when he got home, drank until he’d passed out. He sat up and rubbed at his face. Wishing that the demons in his head would stop clattering around, he attempted a smile. ‘Don’t suppose you’d be a sweetheart and get me a coffee and a couple of aspirin?’