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her,” Robert says. “Not really. I never did anything for her or her mother. I told myself I did. I’d slip them bits of money here and there, sometimes do some odd jobs. I hung around a bit. But I never really did anything. Gloria—Cheryl’s mum—she was a girl I used to go to back in the day. I mean, lots of men did, she was a stunner. But when she got knocked up I knew it was mine. I knew it even if she didn’t. But did I do anything about it? Did I do anything to help? Did I fuck. I cared about her, that Gloria. I mean I cared about her as much as I’ve ever cared about a girl. You’d probably use the word ‘love’ but, well, what does it matter now? And I did fuck all for her. And after she passed away I did fuck all for her daughter. For our daughter. And now she’s fucking gone.”

“I’m sorry,” says Lorenzo.

“There’s no need to be sorry,” says Robert. “And there’s no call for me being sorry. It’s high time I fucking did something about it. Only I haven’t got a clue what I can do. And I’ve just spent the last three months sitting on my arse drinking myself half to death like the fucking useless waste of space I am.”

“Excuse me?” There’s a woman sitting at the table at the other side of the pub. Neither Lorenzo nor Robert saw her arrive nor take up her seat nor purchase the cup of black coffee on the table in front of her.

Lorenzo’s first thought: coffee in a pub? Robert’s first thought: fucking hell, I wouldn’t have sworn so much if I’d known there was a lady present.

“Excuse me?” The woman speaks again.

“Er, yes?” replies Lorenzo.

“Hi, my name is Mona. I’m a photographer.” She pulls out an expensive-looking camera. “Would you mind if I took your photo?” She’s speaking to Robert.

“My photo? Why my photo? He’s the star!” Robert points to Lorenzo who waves away his friend’s finger, embarrassed. “He’s a big-time actor, you know. He was in that show.”

“Stop, Rab.”

The photographer speaks again to Robert. “I just couldn’t help overhearing part of your conversation,” she said. “Can I take your photo? You know, of the tattoo.”

Robert stops smiling. “Oh, right. Well, that wasn’t the main point of the conversation. I’m not involved with any of that anymore. I had the tattoo removed. I don’t like to talk about it.”

The photographer, Mona, has already lifted the camera to her face and is taking pictures. The shutter clicks several times.

“No,” Robert insists. “I don’t want people to know about that.” There’s dismay in his voice and across his face. At least, Lorenzo knows it to be dismay. Another person might read it as anger. Robert has the sort of face that seems to project every emotion as a kind of anger.

Mona the photographer stops clicking. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. No problem, I’ll just delete those. It just sounded like an interesting story, that’s all. And you have such a fascinating face.” She turns the camera over in her hands and presses some buttons on the back. Lorenzo and Robert hear a beeping sound and assume the photos have been deleted.

Robert says, “That’s okay, love. No harm done.”

Mona leaves the pub. Her coffee remains on the table, undrunk.

Lorenzo tells Robert he’s going outside for a smoke, even though Lorenzo quit years ago and Robert probably knows this. Robert nods, and tells him he’ll have another round waiting when he gets back. Lorenzo picks up his coat and puts it on. He swings open the door, closes it behind him and stands just beyond the threshold. Through the window he can see Robert moving towards the bar. He turns to face the street. Soho is busy but not unbearably so. Weekday business is different from weekend business. Pedestrians have clear destinations. They walk quickly in straight lines. Bikes and motor vehicles likewise move with purpose.

Lorenzo has known Robert all his life. He has never asked him much about his past, thinking it better to remain ignorant. His mum and aunts sometimes made comments about their neighbor, but must have thought he was safe enough latterly, otherwise they wouldn’t have let Lorenzo hang around with him. He guessed he was a bit dodgy and had done shady things. He knew he’d been to prison, years ago. But this.

Lorenzo has always given a certain type of man the benefit of the doubt. It is a type of man that, he now realizes, he is fundamentally terrified of, and always has been. And yet it is also a type of man that he finds himself bending over backwards to make excuses for.

Perhaps he is like that man in the Herzog film who went to live with grizzly bears in the Alaskan wilderness for several months each year, believing them to be good-natured, amicable, tame, or thinking they loved him enough to set aside their nature. He thought he was special to them; that they had a unique bond. But then, one day, they ate him.

Lorenzo looks back into the pub. Robert is sitting back down at the table, with a pint for himself and another for Lorenzo. Lorenzo turns away and heads down the street.

Nothing Like Harry Potter

The man they call Paul Daniels is sitting in the dark cellar with his back against the wall. He is slightly apart from the rest of the group. Shadows obscure his features, his expression and the direction of his gaze. If the others could see him clearly, or if they cared to look, they would see that he is scowling with intent, towards the Archbishop. The Archbishop is in his usual place—a chair, a throne, almost, constructed from wooden pallets set with ragged blankets and stained cushions. The Archbishop is asleep, and the crown on his head is aslant but firmly in position, as if it has been shoved down over