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despite what Simon the Psychologist might think. We’d just never developed the knack of talking to one another in any meaningful sense of the word, that was all.
    ‘Did you not have more hair?’
    Simon Fraser was standing behind my left shoulder, an expectant look on his face.
    ‘Mr Fraser,’ I said quickly. ‘Hi, have a seat.’ He’d caught me unawares and I tried to regain some composure as he slid in next to Terry.
    ‘And who’s this sorry excuse for a man?’ He indicated Terry with a sideways nod.
    ‘Eh, this is my mate, Terry.’
    Mr Fraser turned and eyed a hurt-looking Terry. ‘You could stand to lose a stone or two, young man. Am I wrong?’
    Terry went pale, and started to tremble. ‘H-Hello,’ he said.
    ‘Can I get you a Guinness, Mr Fraser?’ I said.
    ‘Call me Joe, and I’ll have a lager. I feckin’ hate that bloody black stuff, blows you up like a balloon.’ He looked at Terry again as he said this.
    I hurried to the bar, leaving Terry to his fate. Why did he want me to call him Joe ?
    I returned with three pints and sat down, not a little nervous. ‘Here we go.’
    ‘Good lad.’ Simon, sorry, Joe , took a deep draught then smacked his lips in satisfaction. ‘Terence here tells me you’re a wanker right enough, James.’
    I shot Terry a look, but he just shrugged. ‘Hah, does he now?’ I said.
    Mr Fraser smiled as he moved his glass back to his lips. He looked pretty much as I remembered him. He was wearing a faded black sweatshirt and a sports jacket that either he or someone else had clearly been living in for a while. His hair was still thick, if a little greyer, and sat in a straggled mop of disarray atop and around his head. I knew he must be well into his sixties by now, but his face looked as young as it had the last time I’d seen him. The laughter lines were perhaps a touch more pronounced, but his eyes still shone with sharpness and wit.
    ‘So, Mr Fraser ...’
    ‘Call me Joe.’
    Why? ‘Joe, sorry. Thanks for coming out.’
    ‘To be honest, son, the only reason I’m here is that your call came at a good time. Louise is a lovely girl, but retirement has shown me 24 hours-a-day is too long to be in anyone’s company. At least, that’s what she says; she’s been trying to get me out of the house for ages. She doesn’t understand my love of Bruce Lee films, you see. Would you believe she’s made me move the DVD player into Paula’s old room?’
    ‘Okay, wow.’ I glanced at Terry, who had moved as far along the booth’s seat as he could, and was now cramming himself tightly against the wall. But, crucially, Paula’s name had been mentioned, and not by me. I couldn’t afford to pass this opportunity up. ‘Paula’s room, really? That’s shocking. How is—’
    ‘I mean, have you seen the Fist of Fury special edition? It’s feckin’ marvellous. How that young fella managed not to hurt himself is a source of constant amazement to me. Only thirty-three when he died as well, probably ages with yourself. What a loss. From a bloody headache tablet too, how tragic is that? He kicked the shit out of Chuck Norris but got himself killed by a feckin’ Paracetamol. There’s your argument against a fair and just world, I’m tellin’ ye.’
    I guessed Mr Fraser hadn’t been out for a pint in a while. Either that or it wasn’t his age that led him to retire.
    ‘Hmm, yes ...’ I started.
    ‘Same age as me, you know.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Bruce Lee, same age as me. Born four days before I was. He’s been dead for thirty-odd years and I’m still feckin’ here. What the hell is that all about?’
    ‘I ... don’t know, Joe.’
    ‘Me feckin’ neither.’ He downed the rest of his pint in one and whacked the empty glass on the table. ‘My shout.’
    Once he was out of earshot, Terry leaned over the table and whispered: ‘He’s fucking mental.’
    I could only agree. ‘Seems to be. Look, this was a shit idea, so let’s just humour him till he goes away,