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me, you think, Joey’s got a leather sofa. The toerag’s living well, you think.’
    He pulled one of the cups towards him and filled it with dark brown liquid.
    ‘And then you step inside, and you come up close, and you relax a bit, you unwind a bit, you calm down a bit, because it’s only plastic, isn’t it? Cause Joe can’t pay his rent, and when you live on tick you shouldn’t sit on leather. Shouldn’t park your arse on handstitched hide when you’ve still got bills to pay.’
    A dash of milk, two lumps of sugar.
    ‘You ought to squat on the ground, if I’m being honest. Ought to sit on the pavement, just sit in a puddle on the fucking pavement. That’s what you ought to do, Joe. That’s my honest opinion, for what it’s worth, which isn’t much.’
    He took a cautious sip and nodded to the girl.
    ‘Nice spot of tea, this, sweetheart. Is it Darjeeling?’
    With which remark he paused and drained his cup. No sound, save that of liquid going down the gullet. So not quite silence, but very nearly. He was feeling mellow, quite at ease, the tannin warmth cascading through his belly. He leaned back in the sofa and flicked his gaze around the room.
    ‘If I had to find a term for it, I’d call this flat appropriate . You’ve found your niche, my boy. You’ve found your place in life.’
    He picked up a chocolate digestive.
    ‘Just open the window, now and then.’
    Allowed himself a generous bite.
    ‘Lift the sash and let some air in. Make a pleasant change.’
    Washed it down with a glass of squash.
    ‘You’re getting like my clients, Joe. I mean I go and see them, and their rooms smell bad. They haven’t heard about open windows, they don’t believe in London breezes. What might be termed as common types, just rubbish, really, just hoi polloi. They sit inside all day and breathe stale air. They rub and sweat and touch themselves, and forget about their creditors. You should leave it open, I tell them. An hour or so a day, and you get your circulation. Fresh air won’t hurt you, I tell them. Billy might, but fresh air won’t.’
    And then he laughed, to let them know he was only joking, and cut himself a generous slice of lemon sponge.
    ‘Give me a break,’ Joe said. ‘Be reasonable.’
    ‘People are always saying that, son. What they usually mean is they can’t make the payments. They don’t say it right out like that. They never say it straight out. They circle round it, like it could burn them. Be reasonable, they say. Like I’m a mug.’ He peered at Joe. ‘You think I’m a mug?’
    Joe shook his head.
    ‘Didn’t quite catch that.’
    ‘No, boss.’
    ‘No, boss. I’m not a mug. I’m not soft, see, nor am I stupid. I’m the man who lent you money. I’m the man, the reasonable man, you came to when you had a problem. I need a grand, boss. Lend me a grand, boss. And did I keep you waiting? Did I say: not now, come back next month? Did I try and tell you times were hard? Did I?’
    ‘No, boss.’
    ‘I handed it over. Just like that. Without arguing. Without quibbling. Without asking for collateral. And you know why I don’t ask for collateral?’
    ‘No, boss.’
    ‘Because you are the collateral. And your mum. And the little bit of lusciousness who’s sitting by your side.’
    ‘Give me another week, that’s all.’
    ‘I’ve always been soft like that. They come to me, these people, these types who can’t get credit when everyone can get credit, when children can get credit, they come to me and they say: Help me, Henry. Tide me over. And out of my good nature, my limitless compassion, I say: what do you want, pal? You name it, I say, and you’ve got it. You want a grand? You’ve got a grand. And I never say when I want it back. I never tell them I need it back by a certain date. I don’t even give them a fucking date. So they never have to pay it back, unless they really want to. All they have to pay is the five percent. Five percent, per week, every week, is all they