“Gimme a hug.”

I did.

Not easily or with much flexibility. Us Irish guys don’t do hugs. Not without a lingering mortification. He looked good. His trademark black 501s were spotless. A granddad shirt, cowboy boots and a black suede waistcoat. A ponytail tied tight. Like me, Jeff was knocking on fifty. He didn’t look like an aging rocker. An ease in his movements gave class to whatever he wore. I said,

“You look great.”

In Ireland this is usually the preamble to “Lend us some money.”

I meant it.

He stepped back, scrutinised me. I was wearing my one Oxfam suit. It had died. I’d let my hair grow and hadn’t trimmed my beard. He said,

“You look fucked.”

“Thanks.”

He went to cream the pint. I sat at what used to be my spot. In the corner, hard chair, harder table. Hadn’t changed. I had. I said to the sentry,

“Can I get you a pint?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. I wasn’t sure he’d heard. Then he spun on the stool, asked,

“Will I have to buy you one back?”

“No.”

“OK then.”

I rummaged in my holdall, took out some essentials. Left a package on the table, slipped the rest in my pocket, said,

“Jeff, I’m just going for a pee.”

“Whatever.”

I locked a stall, kneeled over the toilet, pulled down the lid, took out the Silverwrap. I laid five lines, rolled an English tenner and snorted fast. The burn was instant. Rocked me against the door, could feel the freeze lash my brain, muttered,

“Christ.”

After ten minutes, I was electric; straightened up, went to the wash basin. A mirror above had the logo, SWEET AFTON.

My nose was bleeding. I said,

“Sweet Jesus.”

Cleansed it with a tissue. Doused my face in cold water. A grey tint showed beneath my beard. My cheeks were sunken. I hitched my pants, tightened the belt a notch. Two stone had gone. In my hurling days, I was built. Spuds and sport pack on that bulk.