Feeling good, more relaxed now, he pushed through the door into a narrow, dank-smelling concrete-floored passage with mildew eating the walls, having to squeeze past crates of empty bottles stacked nearly to the corrugated iron roof. The Gents' toilets consisted of two cubicles, one already occupied, and as Dillon stood back to let someone pass, he glimpsed Malone entering the other. A girl, seventeen or thereabouts, lank mousy hair tied back in a pony-tail, was standing outside one of the Ladies' cubicles opposite, tapping ungently on the door with bitten fingernails painted a day-glo yellow.

'Come on, Kathleen, you bin ages!' The lilt of her accent made even her whine sound attractive to Dillon's ears. She tapped again, gnawing her lip. 'Kathleen, are you coming out of there?'

Amused, Dillon leaned against the wall, stroking his dark moustache. He watched as Kathleen emerged – a transformed Kathleen apparently – having strained and struggled into a skimpy, tight-fitting knitted top that showed every nook and cranny. She smoothed it down over her puppy-fat tummy, blue-lidded eyes under frizzy blonde, home-kit permed hair, an attempt at being Madonna falling flat. She mouthed through glossy red lips, 'Me mother'd kill me if she caught me wearing this… do you like it? It's crocheted -'

Catching sight of Dillon, she tossed her haughty head in the air, and the pair of them went off, squealing and giggling.

Hell, he was bursting. Dillon banged on the cubicle door.

'Come on, Malone!'

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain -

(Loud enough, even here, to drown out the sound of the live band.)

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

Too much in love drives a man insane -

Dillon banged again, harder.

Jimmy backed away from the bar, loaded tray held high, Harry nipping in to grab the one being filled by the perspiring barman.