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choking on the dust.
    Steve was true to his word about being a grafter, eager to prove to Bobby that his faith in him was justified. They worked without a break until one o’clock when Bobby offered to do the day’s sandwich run.
    ‘I fancy a cheese and ham baguette myself, boss. Yourself?’
    ‘Aye, that’ll do rightly for me too. A can o’ Coke and a Mars Bar too, please.’
    While Bobby was away sorting out their lunch, Steve rested himself against the wall on the hallway outside the room they were gutting. He liked the feeling of knowing that the lunch he was about to devour was well-earned. An Ulster Presbyterian work ethic had been drummed into him since childhood and the rebellious streak that he’d developed from adolescence onwards had done little to shake off the conditioning.
    Steve was lightly dozing when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs and shouted a greeting to Bobby.
    ‘I tell ye what, mate… I’m fuckin’ starvin’… hope them baguettes are king-sized bastards …’
    Steve rubbed his dirty hands against his jeans in anticipation but when he looked up, it wasn’t Bobby standing at the top of the stairs. It was a vision of Mod elegance that made him gasp in admiration.
    Facially, the guy resembled a younger Clint Eastwood, with small piercing eyes but with a sharper haircut that anything Steve had ever seen on Clint. His dark blue mohair suit looked like it had been painted onto his slim athletic frame and consisted of a three-button box jacket with one inch side vents and tight, narrow trousers tapering onto an immaculate pair of black Cuban heels. The ensemble was completed by a silk paisley shirt with button-down collars.
    Steve felt like giving him a round of applause but instead, nervously blurted out a compliment.
    ‘Hey man, really dig the threads!’
    The be-suited guy walked slowly came forward with a forced-looking smile and Steve quickly stood up to greet him. He held out his hand for Steve to shake.
    ‘I’m Anthony Cubitt.’
    ‘Hi Anthony, I’m Steve …just been guttin’ one of the rooms up here. I’m guessin’ this is your gaff, then?’
    As Steve talked he could feel Cubitt’s grip on his hand get tighter. He stared straight into Steve’s eyes, unblinkingly.
    ‘Listen, bogtrotter. I don’t give a damn what your name is or what unskilled task you’re undertaking. Understand this. Don’t ever address me in that vulgar manner again. In fact, don’t assume that you are in a position to converse with me in any way whatsoever. Just get on with whatever inconsequential drudgery you’re involved in and keep your mouth shut when I’m around. As far as I’m concerned, the likes of you are scum.’
    The bone-crushing grip on Steve’s hand kept intensifying until his eyes watered. Looking pleadingly into Cubitt’s icy-blue eyes, Steve was in little doubt that the man was psychotic. He was on the verge of crying out in pain when Bobby’s appearance on the scene disturbed Cubitt’s concentration and he released Steve’s hand. Without a word, Cubitt turned around, brushed past Bobby as if he wasn’t there and walked straight down the stairs.
    When he was sure Cubitt was out of earshot, Bobby asked Steve what had occurred.
    ‘Please boss, don’t tell me that you said something to annoy the Ace Face.’
    ‘Ace Face? What are ye on about? And what’s the crack with all that posh lingo he comes out with?’
    ‘Ace Face is the nickname that the boys came up with ‘cos of the Mod clobber. Not that we’d ever let him get wind of that. The snooty voice is just something that he’s worked on ‘cos I’ve heard on good authority that his dad was a street-cleaner from Worthing .’
    ‘But he has to be gay, yeah?’ said Steve. ‘That theatrical manner ‘n all… camp as fuck eh?’
    Bobby snorted. ‘Don’t you fucking believe it. He’s a proper shag merchant but only with industrial strength condoms apparently. He’s a hygiene freak on top of everything else.