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him,' he says over his shoulder.
    For the next couple of minutes Jason and Niall don't say much. Then, opposite a darkened car wash, the man they're following turns down a side street.
    Eighty metres behind, Niall and Jason pick up the pace.
    At Oil Street, they stop.
    'That road's a bit dodgy, Niall,' says Jason. He's hopping from one leg to the other, his head hunched into his hoodie. 'I went to a twenty-first in an Irish pub down here once – rough as fuck – and I cut through this road on me way back into town. It's fucken nasty at night, man. We don't want to go down there.'
    'Let's just see.' Fifty quid is fifty quid. He turns to Jason and jabs him in the chest with his forefinger. 'And don't forget, dickhead,
we're
supposed to be the nasty ones.'
    Niall looks down Oil Street and sees Noone disappear through a gap in a wall.
    If it was Noone.
    Niall, despite his confident assertions to the contrary, isn't so sure any more. What would some ponce of an actor be doing dicking about in a place like this?
    'Shit.' To Niall's left are the lights from the city. It looks inviting. Down Oil Street, everything just looks black and shitty. Halfway down the street is a single yellow lamp hanging outside some sort of brick building. High walls and barbed wire run along one side, the arse end of industrial units along the other. Every window is covered with iron bars. The pavement gleams with broken glass. Although Niall and Jason don't know it, the area's thick with the ghosts of the High Rip gang. A hundred and twenty years ago sailors were rolled down here in the slums off the Dock Road, shivved or kicked to death, for the coin in their pocket. It hasn't improved much since then. The place is a shithole.
    'Fuck this,' says Jason. 'I'm off. Fifty notes isn't enough for this.'
    'Go then,' says Niall, hoping Jason stays.
    'I will.'
    Niall watches him fidget, unsure of what to do. Niall shakes his head and then heads down Oil Street.
    'Wait here for us,' he hisses to Jason and then he's gone.
    At the intersection, Jason stands for a second. A car blares past, and someone shouts something. A dog barks.
    Jason runs.
    Fuck
CSI
. Big Niall's on his own.

Nine
    Em is lying on the bed wearing nothing. Frank runs a hand through his hair and whistles. It's an image that he's sure, drunk or not, will stick in his mind for a long time.
    'Frankie,' she says, her eyes half-closed. She runs a finger lazily across her lower stomach and makes small, slow movements with her hips.
    It would take a much better man than he is to resist. And he's technically single. Like it matters. He doesn't ask about Linda.
    There are so many reasons that they shouldn't be doing this that his head would be spinning even without being bombed.
    But he is bombed and besides . . .
Jesus. Come on. Look at her
.
    Frank pulls off his shirt and staggers onto the bed. Both of them pissed as squaddies on a weekend pass.
    Em laughs. A deep, warm sound. She rolls Frank onto his back and straddles his chest.
    Frank's breathing comes heavier and Em reaches behind her to find his cock. Without taking her eyes off his she runs her fingers along him and he arches his back towards her. His hands cup her buttocks. A natural place. They're softer than he'd imagined – and he'd imagined them often – but still firmly muscled. Harris is fitter than him, scores higher in the annual tests, works out with . . .
    'Frank.' Em puts a hand to his face. 'You still with me?'
    Frank focuses and makes a noise but he's not sure what he's saying. Christ, he's hammered. Em slides down his body until she's got his cock in her mouth. Now he's awake.
    The moments pass like shadows. Frank's licking her, he's in her, there's moaning, sweat. She's angry and hungry. He feels her slapping him at one point and he's aroused and pained at the sametime. Her open palm has weight and he feels he's being punished, not just for this and not just for her pleasure, but for unknown past workplace indiscretions and