‘My mother died when I was seven, so Louis and I are spiritually connected. Wanna drink?’

I looked at the bill, said, ‘Five friggin’ quid, dream on sucker.’

I left a pound on the table and we went outside. I could see Bert through the plate glass window reading the writing on the table. Time he read the writing on the wall. Cassie asked, ‘Can you run?’

‘Wot?’

And she took the ketchup bottle from the coat, shouted, ‘It’s a goddamn homer.’

I could hear the glass shatter as we tore across the road. We reached my car, she asked, ‘This is yours.’

‘Sure is.’

‘Can I drive?’

I gave her the look, said in what I considered a passable twang, ‘In your language… Get real.’

We got in and she sank in her seat, she gave a low whistle, said, ‘Way to go.’

It’s an impressive car, least I think so. A Subaru Impreza, its cousin won the Monte Carlo rally. Yeah, like that. Lemme break it down, it’s turbo charged, two litre, four wheel drive. It’s got bonnet scoop, vents, bumper air intakes, and these mother driving lamps. On the up and up, it goes for near twenty grand. As I hit the ignition, she asked, ‘It looks like it’s cookin’, but is it all flash?’

‘Listen lady, how many cars will hit 30 mph from go in two seconds and show 60 in six before rushing on past 140.’

She gave a low chuckle, mean and nasty.

‘And go right to sleep after.’

I ignored her, manoeuvred past the roundabout at the Elephant and Castle, headed for the Oval. Cassie turned her head, listening attentively.

She said, ‘I hear Morocco, the wail of the minaret, the call to prayer.’

I wondered had I taken a wrong turn in the conversation. Between passing into third gear had I missed something. Asked, ‘Did I miss something?’

‘An automobile like this, with a sexy name, seems a goddamn waste in the city, I mean do you get to hit 100-plus often?’

She had a point, a fairly irritating one but nonetheless… I said, ‘It does the job.’