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‘Dope?’
    Squeal began to close the door, muttering something unintelligible. Uzi wedged his arm into the open doorway.
    ‘Fuck off,’ said Squeal, ‘or I’ll call the police.’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ said Uzi. ‘Look, I just want an egg. One egg. That’s all.’
    Squeal stopped pressing the door and looked closely at him. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, breaking into a hesitant grin. ‘You’ve got the munchies, haven’t you? You’re stoned, aren’t you? Aren’t you?’
    Despite himself, Uzi smiled broadly. Then he heard Squeal laugh for the first time. He sounded like a puppy.
    ‘Come in, dude,’ said Squeal. ‘Make yourself at home, yeah? The eggs are on me.’
    Uzi stepped through the door into the gloom. ‘I’m making shakshuka, he said. ‘I need shakshuka. You ever had shakshuka?’
    By the time Uzi arrived at Inverness street market, the stalls were closed and the road was bald and barren. Detritus lined the gutters. He ambled at a diagonal across the cobbles, shaking his head to clear it. It was hot and his trainers were sticking to the pavement. The stash in his bag felt unnaturally heavy, the way it always did before a drop. The bars and restaurants were empty yet pristine, all primed for an influx of customers later in the evening. He removed his sunglasses, tried to pull himself together. Over the years he had been part of countless high-pressure, ‘no zero’ operations where the outcome could be nothing but decisive. Yet now he felt nervous. His life wasn’t threatened, this was a straightforward sale, and he was nervous. To steady himself he lit a cigarette, but could only manage half of it because he was keen to get to the meeting. Dropping it into the gutter, he headed for the Blue Peacock café.
    A girl in an apron approached him as he entered. She was very pretty, and he smiled at her. He thought she reminded him of a woman he could have known long ago, but he wasn’t sure. She spoke with a Polish accent and in a moment of hazy generosity he considered buying her a drink, buying her a house, proposing to her. He pulled himself together again and asked in Russian if Andrzej was there. She asked him if he was Tomislav Kasheyev. He nodded and she gave him another sort of look, as if he might be a policeman. He ordered a Scotch. Then she showed him upstairs to the back room.
    There seemed to be no air and for a moment Uzi thought he would pass out. He was dehydrated. He turned to ask for some water, but the girl had disappeared. He drank his Scotch. The room was square and gloaming, with blacked-out windows and red drapes lining the walls. Incongruous music was playing in the background – Metallica. Three men sat around a table, their amber beer glasses clustered around a candle in the middle. Two were leaning back casually, and one – Squeal’s contact, Andrzej – sat hunched forward, his arms folded into his stomach. Little could be seen of them on account of the shadows; the room was lit only by candles. They looked up, scrutinising Uzi carefully. Then they beckoned him over and he took a seat among them.
    ‘Special delivery,’ he said in Russian.
    ‘Wonderful,’ said Andrzej, in the same language but with a strong Polish accent. ‘What excellent service. Wonderful.’
    ‘Party, is it?’ said Uzi, not letting go of his rucksack. ‘Birthday party?’
    ‘Yes,’ Andrzej said, ‘for one of my girlfriends.’ They all laughed and drank.
    Uzi lit a cigarette and nobody said anything. One Metallica song ended and another began. Then Andrzej lit up in the same way, blowing a jet of smoke over Uzi’s shoulder. They all laughed. Sidelong, Uzi sized them up. Well dressed, but in a try-hard sort of way. Small-time. Unsure of themselves. But he knew that amateurs could be more dangerous than professionals; these men could be volatile. They were in a jovial mood, but they clearly had something to prove.
    ‘So, Tomislav, my friend,’ said Andrzej with a smile. ‘Let’s see the