Was the guard hit?

He walked to Goodge Street tube. There must have been an unusual shift pattern, because the same guard was lurking behind the barriers. Or maybe he just needed the money. He was propped up against the wall and nodded a grim good morning at Michael.

Michael shuffled his apologies. 'Uh. I'm sorry about last night. Did he hit you?'

The guard looked up, bleary from lack of sleep, angry at first for being disturbed. Then he remembered to be civil. 'Sorry?'

'Um. Last night. That big bloke who was a bit woozy. You came running after me and I thought he'd hit you.'

The blue eyes were too pale; there was something frozen about them. 'You must want someone else, mate.'

Michael shook his head at his own mistake. 'Of course. You wouldn't get two shifts in a row would you?'

'I would. I need the money. I was here last night, but there was no big man. Sorry.'

Michael stood frozen. All right, Tony had not been real. 'But don't you remember talking to me?'

The guard wanted to read his paper. It was called Loot and sold houses and cars to people who had no money to buy them. He lowered the paper. 'There was something. You were standing there by the barriers.' He gestured towards them, scowling, looking as baffled as the Cherub had the night before. Michael saw that he needed a shave. 'That's it. You were drunk.' The guard's lip curled, and he lifted up his paper. He looked pretty and petulant and butch, all at once. 'You were right out of it, mate. So that explains it then. All right?' He stared stonily at his paper. Conversation over. They waited for the lifts to arrive.

I didn't drink anything. Michael reconstructed the entire night and day in his mind. He hadn't been to the pub. He hadn't drunk a thing.

The guard rocked himself away from the wall on which he was leaning, and punched big silver keys. The lift door opened.