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I haven’t seen Ash sober in ages.’
    Adam looked at Molly, who seemed suddenly downcast.
    ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s stick some tunes on the jukebox.’
    By the time he caught up with her at the ancient, glowing wall-mounted machine she was already punching in numbers off by heart. He flicked through the album covers to find what she’d put on.
    ‘Abba?’ he said. ‘Seriously?’
    Molly smiled in mock offence. ‘What’s wrong with Abba?’
    Adam looked at her. ‘Just not my kind of thing, that’s all.’
    ‘Don’t tell me, landfill indie?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You know, mortgage rock – Coldplay, Snow Patrol, Editors, all that dreary pish.’
    Adam shook his head. ‘That’s more Roddy’s bag.’
    The truth was Adam didn’t mind that stuff either, but really he’d pretty much given up on music after Britpop and had regressed to his dodgy metal past, digging out old Thin Lizzy, AC/DC and Motörhead albums and sticking them on his cheap iPod imitation.
    They walked back to the table. Ash and Roddy had disappeared.
    ‘What did you put on?’ Luke drawled. He’d clearly had a few joints back at the B&B.

    ‘Abba,’ said Adam, smiling at Molly.
    Ethan made a face. ‘Not the Mamma Mia soundtrack? Debs loves that garbage.’
    ‘Christ no,’ said Molly. ‘The real deal.’
    ‘Very cool,’ said Luke, nodding.
    ‘See?’ said Molly, nudging Adam. ‘A man after my own heart.’
    ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Adam. ‘I need the loo.’
    The tiny bogs were rammed so he decided on an al fresco slash, heading out the delivery door to a courtyard stinking of piss and stale beer, lit by a sliver of moon.
    As he was about to unzip he spotted two figures in the shadows across the courtyard. He pressed himself into a dark corner.
    ‘Fuck, it’s freezing out here,’ said the taller of the two. Roddy.
    Adam watched as Roddy got something out of his pocket, then heard a loud coke sniff.
    ‘Hey, ladies first,’ said the other figure, punching his shoulder. Ash.
    He offered up something. She held her hair back, leaned in and snorted. They sniffed and laughed then she kissed him hard, grabbing his crotch.
    ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Bad moon rising.’
    She knelt and whipped his jeans down in a quick movement. Adam saw her head moving forwards and backwards.
    ‘Fuck,’ said Roddy, holding her head in both hands.
    Adam watched for a moment then turned back to the pub.
    He waited his turn in the urinals, stopping to examine his saggy face in the grubby mirror afterwards. He washed his hands then pulled them still dripping down his face, trying to freshen himself up. He gazed at himself again, then sighed heavily and left.
    By the time he got back to the table, Ash and Roddy were sitting there as if nothing had happened, except for a smirk on Roddy’s face and a flushed colour in Ash’s cheeks.
    She took a big swig of JD and turned to Roddy. ‘So it’s basically your fault the world economy is fucked and we’re all skint.’
    ‘We’re not all skint,’ said Roddy, patting his wallet.
    Ethan groaned. ‘Don’t get him started.’
    ‘We’re being made scapegoats by the fucking media,’ Roddy shouted. ‘Fund manager is a job like any other.’
    ‘Except you make millions at the expense of ordinary punters,’ said Adam.
    ‘There is that.’
    ‘And get huge bonuses when you succeed, but no punishment when you cock up.’
    Roddy beamed. ‘I didn’t make the rules. And anyway, I don’t fuck up, I’m still making pots of money. The best in the business like me are always going to make money. Ask Luke, I got a shit-hot return on his little nest egg.’
    Adam turned to Luke. ‘Roddy invested for you?’
    Luke shrugged.
    ‘Just as a little favour, you understand,’ said Roddy. ‘I wouldn’t normally take on something that small.’
    Adam turned to Roddy. ‘But people like you have fucked this country’s reputation for being good with money.’
    ‘Me?’ said Roddy. He pointed at Ethan.