Everyone needs somewhere to go, when it all goes pear-shaped. A bolt-hole to shelter in, till the shitstorm passes. I usually end up in Strangefellows, the oldest bar in the world. A (fairly) discreet drinking establish­ment, tucked away in the back of beyond, at the end of an alley that isn't always there, Strangefellows is a good place to booze and brood and hide from any num­ber of people, most of whom wouldn't be seen dead in such a dive. It was run with malice aforethought by one Alex Morrisey, who didn't allow any trouble in his bar, most especially from me.

I found a table in a corner, so I wouldn't have to watch my back, and indulged myself with a bottle of wormwood brandy. It tastes like a supermodel's tears and is so potent it can catch alight if someone at the next table strikes a match. I kept my head well down and looked about me surreptitiously. If anyone had no­ticed me come in, they were keeping their excitement well under control. Certainly no-one was rushing for the exit to tell on me. Perhaps word hadn't got around yet as to how royally I'd screwed up this time. There were any number of people who weren't going to be at all pleased with me for knocking out twelve percent of the Nightside's electricity supply. Not least Walker, who'd got me the job in the first place. I faked a care­less shrug. If they couldn't take a joke, they shouldn't hire me.