Smack! went Julie’s hand on Russell’s face.

“What did I say?” Russell watched her storm off into the crowd, “What did I say?”

“That’s a pretty crap technique you have there,” said Bobby Boy, sidling up. “Not a patch on my own. But then we actors have a certain charisma, especially with the starlets. Anyway, that’s my bit of tail, so keep your eyes off it.”

“Why you –” Russell raised a fist, but Morgan caught his wrist from behind.

“Don’t let him wind you up, Russell,” said Morgan. “Come and have a chat with us.”

Russell glared Bobby Boy eyeball to eyeball. There was much macho posture-work and you could almost taste the testosterone.

Russell let himself be led away.

“He’s not worth it,” said Morgan, as this was the done thing to say in such circumstances.

Frank stood talking with a couple of half-cut production buyers, the two young men joined them.

“All right, Russell?” asked Frank. And then, sniff sniff sniff. “It’s vomit again, isn’t it?”

Russell sighed.

“Now, let me see if I can identify it correctly. It was Garvey’s Best Bitter last time, if I recall. Hm, let’s sniff. It’s Scotch. It’s a malt. It’s a five-year-old. It’s Glen Boleskine. Am I right, or am I right?”

Russell nodded helplessly.

“Frank certainly knows his vomit,” said Morgan.

“It’s a knack,” said Frank. “You see a lot of vomit in the film game. I remember one time I was drinking with Rock Hudson in his hotel room. We’d had a few, well, I’d had more than him and I chucked on the carpet. But he was a real gent, cleaned it all up and when I passed out he tucked me up in his own bed. I woke up the next day with a right hangover and I don’t know what I must have sat on the night before, but my bum wasn’t half sore.”

Looks were exchanged all around Frank and Morgan hastily changed the subject. “That movie was a real stonker,” he said. “Er, I mean, it was really good, wasn’t it?”

“And it will stay that way too,” said Russell. “I’m not going to let Mr Fudgepacker ruin it by putting in all that gore and guts.”

“Shame,” said Morgan. “I was looking forward to seeing the bit where the psycho gets the hedge-trimmer and sticks it right up –”

“Absolutely not!” Russell waved a wobbly hand about. “But tell me this, Morgan. Did you actually watch any of the movie being shot?”

“Can’t say that I did. I was looking after the Emporium.”

“What about you, Frank?”

“Too much paperwork. Which reminds me –”

“So it was all down to Bobby Boy and Mr Fudgepacker?”

“And Julie,” said Morgan. “Is that woman a babe, or what? Why did she whack you, Russell?”

“I don’t wish to discuss it. But all those other people in the movie. Apart from the landlord of The Bricklayer’s, I don’t know any of them personally, do you?”

Frank and Morgan shook their heads. “Local colour,” said Frank. “Local characters. Fudgepacker knows how to get a performance out of people. Do you want a top-up, I reckon we’re in for an all-nighter here.”

“No thanks.” Russell put his glass aside. “I don’t want any more. I’ve had too much already. I’m going home to have a good shower and get a good night’s sleep. Things might make more sense to me in the morning. Has anybody seen my mum?”

“I think she left hours ago,” said Morgan, “with your sister.”

“Ah yes,” said Russell. “My sister.”

Russell breathed goodbyes over Mr Fudgepacker.

“You take all tomorrow off,” the old one told him. “Clear your head. You’ve done a splendid job and we’re all proud of you.”

“Thank you,” said Russell. “Thank you very much.”

“And change your clothes. I like a bad smell as much as the next man. More actually. But you have to draw the line somewhere. No offence meant.”

“None taken, I assure you.”

“Goodbye to you.”

“Goodbye.”

And Russell waved goodbyes about the place and left.

Russell bumbled along the little riverside path that led by Cider Island and the weir. It was another of those perfect Brentford nights that poets like to write about. And had there been one present, and had he brought his Biro and notebook with him, he would probably have penned something of this nature.

“Ohh! Ow! Bloody Hell!” Russell struggled to his feet and hopped about, a-sniffing. “God,” groaned Russell. “Dog shit too. Whisky and vomit and dog shit. I stink like an open sewer. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.”

Russell rammed a hand over his mouth. He was quite sure he’d spoken those fateful words before. The previous evening. And they’d led him to all kinds of horrors. Or had they? He still didn’t know for sure.

“It’s all too much.” Russell shuffled his feet in the grass and bumbled on his way.

The stars shone down, the moonlight mooned and the Thames went quietly on its way.

After numerous abortive attempts and much in the way of beneath-the-breath swearing, Russell finally got the key into the lock and the front door open. He tip-toed into the house and closed the door as quietly as he could, the lights were all off. His mum was probably fast asleep. And what about his sister? Where was she? Not in his bed, he hoped.

Russell looked in at the front room. A bit of borrowed moonlight showed his sister snoring on the sofa[29].

Russell swayed back into the hall and stumbled upstairs. Then, recalling that he was in a bungalow, he stumbled down the stairs again (which promptly vanished). Taking a shower now was out of the question, he’d wake his mum up. Russell thought he’d best make do with a bit of in-the-dark face-splashing at the kitchen sink. This he achieved with remarkable dexterity and now wearing on his shirt front much of the floating contents of the cat’s bowl which had been soaking in the dishwater, he wiped his face on what he thought to be the tea towel, but wasn’t, and stumbled off to his bedroom.

Fully clothed and wretched he collapsed onto his bed and fell into a troubled sleep.

The moon moved on across the sky.

The Brentford night went slowly by.

In the front room the mantel clock on the feature fireplace struck three. Westminster chimes it had. You don’t hear those much any more. Except in Westminster, of course. But there was a time, not too long ago to escape fond memory, when most folk had a mantel clock with Westminster chimes. One of those 1940s jobbies, shaped like a hump-backed bridge, with two big keyholes in the face and the big key that fitted them tucked underneath, where the kids were forbidden to touch it. And it always had one corner with bits of folded-up Woodbine packet packed under it, to keep the thing level so it kept perfect time. And it was always folded-up Woodbine packet. Because in those days, before the invention of lung cancer, everybody smoked Woodbine: film stars, footballers, even the queen. Mind you, she wasn’t the queen then, she was the queen mum. Well, what I mean is, she was the queen, but she was also the queen mum. I mean, she’s the queen mum now, but she was the queen then. Yes, that’s it. But she was a mum then, of course, mum of the queen. Not that the queen was the queen then. Her mum was.