Death

matter for some days and come to the conclusion it would be – how to put it? – pusillanimous of me to refuse. But I really do need what you would call back-up, Edgar.'

'Of course I'll come,' said Wield. 'On one condition.'

'And what is that?'

There is going to be jelly and cream, isn't there?'

Digweed laughed, then said seriously, Thank you, Edgar. I appreciate it.'

Which made Wield feel good, though the feeling had not developed into any lively anticipation of enjoyment as through the taxi window bearing them south about nine thirty that night he saw a serpentine neon sign wriggling the name Krystabel's across the dark winter sky.

But life is full of surprises.

As they got out of the taxi, the club doors burst open and a burly man in a long mohair overcoat emerged. He had a mobile phone pressed to his ear and his face was deathly pale. Behind him appeared a young man with a fashionably shaven head and wearing a tight black T-shirt which showed off his muscular torso.

'Come on, LB, it'll be OK, don't let him snarl you up like this,' he called. 'Hey, would you like me to come with you?'

The burly man showed no sign of having heard and strode off towards the car park.

Wield, who had retreated into the taxi, now got out. He didn't watch the departing man but concentrated on the other who, becoming aware of this, said 'You'll know me again, funny face’ before twisting round and going back inside.

'Yes, I will’ Wield told himself. 'Friend of yours?' said Digweed. 'The night is young’ said Wield, smiling. Suddenly he felt like a party.

Earlier that same evening, Liam Linford too had felt like a party.

The police had used every delaying tactic possible and, despite Marcus Belchamber's best efforts, the young man had eaten his Christmas dinner in custody. Released in time for New Year, his first impulse had been to tear the town apart and make sure those he held responsible for his misfortunes got what was coming to them.

His father had other ideas.

'You keep your head down, your nose clean. I'll get this business sorted, right?'

'Yeah, like you got Carnwath's sister sorted, you mean?' sneered the young man. 'Let's face it, Dad, you couldn't sort washers. If you'd let me break his legs like I wanted, I'd not have spent the holidays in that shithole… Jesus!'

He found himself sitting on the floor, nursing a bruised jaw, looking up at Wally Linford in a mood he'd never seen him in before.

'You talk like that to me, you're out of here’ grated the older man. 'You step out of line by half an inch and you're on your own. So help me God, Liam, I'll throw you to the wolves. Couple of years inside might be just what you need. Make up your mind. Do this my way, or do it alone’

And Liam, who didn't know much but knew that without the clout derived from being Wally's son and heir he was nothing, had seethed with resentment but obeyed.

Hogmanay he'd celebrated quietly at home. But a week into the New Year and he was opining that he might as well have stayed inside, there was probably more fun to be had there. But his father's threats had kept him on the leash till that Saturday night when he saw Wally Linford leaving the house, heading off to find whatever it was passed for fun in his weird world. Liam waited till his car was out of the drive, then got on the phone and rang his closest friend and chief supporting witness, Robbo.

Robbo might have had plans of his own but he knew better than to object. He turned up at the Linford house twenty minutes later and found Liam waiting. When he opened the door of his Porsche to let his friend in, Liam showed he'd absorbed some of his father's lesson by saying, 'No way. The Filth would love to get me and you for drunk driving. I got a taxi coming. Here it is now. Right, mate, this is a whole night job, they told you that? Great. First stop, Molly Malone's!'

By eight thirty they were getting very drunk and the pub was getting crowded.

'Fuck this,' said Liam. 'Let's go to Trampus's, I fancy cunt. And if that other cunt Carnwath's still working there, I'll mebbe tell him I fancy him too.'

Robbo was still sober enough to wonder if this was such a good idea, but he was shouted down and moments later they spilled out into the car park.

'Mr Linford. Over here,' called the driver of a taxi parked a little way away from the pub door.

‘Thought it was a fucking car before,' said Robbo as they got into the vehicle, which was a traditional London taxi.

'More room in this, sir,' said the driver, huddled in his seat, woollen hat pulled over his ears and scarf wound round his neck against the dank chill of the night. 'Where to?'

'Trampus's club,' said Liam. 'And get a fucking move on!'

The driver seemed to take the instructions to heart and soon they were bowling along at speed to satisfy even their drunken impatience to be where the action was.

Soon the windows steamed up and when Robbo tried to wind one down to let some cool air in, nothing happened.

He rapped on the security panel separating passengers from driver and yelled. 'Here, mate, let some fucking air in!'

The driver didn't respond and Liam said, 'Give it a rest, Robbo. They lock the doors and windows so's we can't fuck off without paying. As if we would.'

He followed this with a burst of raucous laughter at memories of past occasions when they'd bilked some unfortunate taxi driver.

Robbo, who was rubbing at the steamed up window didn't join in.

He said, 'Where's this mad fucker taking us? We're out in the fucking country. Hey, you, where the fuck are we?'

He banged on the panel again and the driver said, 'Short cut.'

Now Liam too rubbed a spyhole in the condensation. Outside there was nothing but darkness with occasionally a glimpse of trees or hedgerows blurring past.

'Short cut?' yelled Liam. 'Shortcut where?'

The driver turned to look at him. His face was a skull.

'Shortcut to hell,' he said.

He dragged the wheel over, the taxi went through a hedge, down a steep embankment, and turned upside down as it plunged into a river.

In the rear the two men, bleeding and battered into sobriety, were screaming as they wrestled with the locked doors. For a moment they were suspended in a cocoon of air. Then in the front the driver wound down his window to let the water in.

Soon the screaming stopped.

‘Look who's here! Ed and Ed! Now truly my cup is full and runneth over!'

Any hope Wield had nursed of taking a back seat vanished when Wim Leenders' voice boomed out across the room as they entered and they were ushered to a table of at least twenty already merry partygoers who were urged to shift along so that the newcomers could sit to the right and left of their jovial host.

He put his arms round them both and invited them to sample the very best that Tinks could offer.

That the champagne was the best Wield took on trust, never having learnt how to distinguish between bubbles. But he drank his share with no discernible effect, toyed with a taco, shuffled a few circuits of the dance floor, and applauded a comic who made Andy Dalziel sound like a Sunday School teacher. After an hour or so he found he was really enjoying himself. Then it came to karaoke time and when Wim started looking for recruits for his famous Village People turn, he slipped off to the loo.

They didn't pipe the music from the club in here, thank God, and he sat in comfortable silence, thinking how great it was to see the usually staid and controlled Edwin letting his hair down, and how lucky he was to have somehow got all the disparate elements of his existence into such a perfect balance.

When he emerged, he could still hear the joyous chant of 'In the Navy' coming from the main room, so he stepped outside for a moment to get a breath of fresher air and almost bumped into the muscular young man in the black T-shirt.