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asked. Colville’s slitty eyes dart around in that wan, mendacious face, looking at me like I’m pond life. He slides an envelope across the table. There’s a stain on the lapel of that stupid grey jacket he wears. No wonder she . . .
    — Your P45 and backpay, he explains, in that cringing voice of his. — As you’re still two weeks short of your 104 weeks’ tenure we don’t have to pay you compensation for your dismissal. You’ll find it’s all above board. It’s the law, he grins.
    I look earnestly at him. — Why, Matt? I ask, feigning injury, — We go back a long way!
    Nope, the stare isnae working; Matty-boy’s face remains impassive as he slides back in the chair and shakes his head slowly. — I’ve warned you about your timekeeping. I need a head barman who’s going to be here. More importantly, I’ve also warned you about that fucking little whore friend of yours coming in here and propositioning my customers. She even tried it on with one of the Old Bill the other week, he nods again in disgust, and I hear a little snicker from Dewry, who’s enjoying this as much as Colville.
    — They’ve got cocks as well, or so I’ve been told, I smile at him. Once again I catch a faint chuckle from behind me.
    Colville sits forward, his coupon set in serious mode. This is his show and he doesn’t want it upstaged. — Don’t be fucking smart, Williamson. I know you think that you’re it, but you’re just another ten-a-penny Jock scumbag from Hackney as far as I’m concerned.
    — Islington, I say quickly. That last bit hurt.
    — Whatever. I expect a head barman to do my business here, not to use this place as a front for his own sordid little activities. All sorts of rubbish are hanging around here now; whores, petty criminals, football thugs, porn merchants, drug dealers, and you know what? It’s all been in the last two years, since you started here.
    — It’s a fucking lap-dancing club, a fuckin strip club. Of course you’re going to get some dodgy characters around. We’re in a sleazy business! I protest angrily. — I’ve brought some loyal paying customers down here! People who spend!
    — Just fucking go, he points to the door.
    — So that’s it, I’m sacked?
    Matt Colville’s smile grows even wider. — Yeah, and as unprofessional as it is of me to admit it, I’m enjoying this.
    I hear another snigger from Dewry behind me. It’s time. I raise my eyes and look directly into his. — Well, I suppose now’s the time to come clean. I’ve been shagging your wife regularly for about eight months.
    — Whaa . . . Colville looks at me, and I sense Dewry freeze in shock behind me, then he makes a hasty exit, coughing some kind of excuse. Colville’s stunned into speechlessness for a second or two, but after a tremor, a slight, wary smile creases his thin lips. Then he shakes his head in a contemptuous loathing. — You’re really quite a sad case, Williamson.
    — I’ve done awright as well, I say, ignoring him. — Check the statements on her Visa card. Hotels, designer clathes, the lot. I finger the Versace shirt. — No oan the money you pey, pal.
    There’s another spasm of fear in his eyes, but it’s replaced by scornful anger. — You sad bastard. You really expect me to get wound up by your nonsense? It’s pathe . . .
    I stand up, and as I do, I pull out the Polaroids from my inside jacket pocket and throw them onto the desk. — Maybe you’ll get wound up by this. I was keeping them for a rainy day. Worth a thousand words, eh, I wink, turning and departing with dignified haste out his office and across the bar. A wave of anxiety powers me to a trot when I get into the street, but nobody’s followed me and I’m laughing loudly through Soho’s backstreets.
    As I walk up Charing Cross Road, there’s a bit of a comedown as it hits me that I’ve lost my most regular source of income. I try to balance this with the loss of the hassle, making a pros and cons list,