2

The club is in the city centre, a small entrance leading into a large building. Nobody on the door on a Sunday afternoon. Usually a handful of people in at the bar, upstairs at the eight snooker tables. Not today. Today on the door a sign: Closed for cleaning. A tatty sign, trotted out every time privacy is required. Suspicious, obvious, but people didn’t ask questions. Calum ignores the sign, opens the door and walks in.

It always seems dim inside, even with every light on. On his right he can see the large, scuffed dance floor, and on the far side the DJ’s booth. There’s a bar running the length of the side wall, gaudy lighting, bottles of every variety – none that he likes. He doesn’t drink alcohol, although he’s never understood in his own mind why. Self-control, most probably. It’s not a moral thing. He loathes the club too, loathes that lifestyle, the sweaty cattle market, the pointless racket. It always came back to him that he hated it because the point was to attract women, and he isn’t deemed attractive to women, no matter how dark it is.

A wide carpeted staircase in front of him, short steps that are easily misjudged. A lot of people have tripped going up them, overreaching. Calum is always careful, fearful not of being hurt, but of looking stupid. At the top of the stairs is a pair of wooden double doors with rectangular windows. He pushes one open and steps into the snooker hall. Eight green tables, two rows of four, plenty of room between each. Scoreboards on the walls, little machines beside each one. Pay a pound, get thirty minutes of light on your table. They make little money, not enough to justify the space they require, but they’re one of Peter Jamieson’s bewildering array of improbable passions. There’s a bar against one wall, small, old-fashioned. No flavoured vodka here, just beer and whiskey. It’s closed today. Cleaning, apparently.

John Young is standing at a table in the middle of the room, chalking his cue. The balls are scattered about the table, none yet potted. He may just have started, he may have been hopeless. Calum has never seen him play before, doesn’t know. He knows Jamieson is good. Everyone knows Jamieson is good. Everyone knows Jamieson has had lessons from professionals. Young must have learned something from his boss.

‘Calum, how are you?’

‘Fine.’ He’s walking across to the cue rack and picking one out. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt; he can only play well in a T-shirt. Sleeves get in the way.

Young shoves all the reds back into the centre of the table and racks them in the triangle. He carefully places the balls on their spots. Everything precise, placed by a man who plays often, and plays with a serious partner. ‘Good weather out,’ he finally says.

‘It is. You break.’

Young bends, lines up the shot and hits it. Only one red runs loose, the white coming right back up the table. Safe – a break to make the next shot difficult. No letting you win.

It stays serious until it becomes obvious that Young is going to win, and easily. Calum has effort, Young has skill, and it takes ten minutes for those two to be widely separated. Then talk.

‘You been working for anyone lately?’ Young asks. This is the first real mention of business, the first open acceptance that this is what the meeting is really about.

The question is misleading. Calum works, he has to. What Young wants to know is if he’s been working repeatedly for the same person, or just drifting around. He probably knows the answer already; he wants to see if Calum can surprise him. He can’t.

‘No. Bits and bobs. Freelance. As ever.’

Nothing for another minute or two. More shots carefully picked out, even when the frame is won, even when the maths prove it. When it’s over, and the balls are being laid out again – best of three – Young speaks again.

‘We’re without anyone now. Shame to lose Frank for a few months.’

‘Didn’t see it coming?’

Young laughs. A short laugh, not a happy one. ‘Frank’s one of those guys that can’t admit when there’s something wrong with him. Not until it’s too late. He should have warned us. He knew for ages and said nothing.’ He shrugs, a what-can-you-do shrug.

Calum’s turn to break. It’s messy: reds everywhere, white in the middle of the table. Trying too hard. Young feels confident enough to talk early.

‘How old you now, Calum?’

‘Twenty-nine.’

‘Gettin’ old.’ Young laughs, self-deprecatingly; he’s a podgy but youthful forty-three. His eyes twinkle when he laughs, like he means it; his forehead crinkles and his tousled dark hair seems to fall forward. He looks jolly, but you never forget who he is. ‘You thinking about settling down?’

It’s a professional question, not personal. ‘I haven’t thought about it at all. Time might come. I don’t feel like I need it. I like my freedom, but I’ll see how the wind blows.’

Young nods. It’s a demand. He’s saying that if he settles with Jamieson, then he doesn’t want to be overworked. It’s a demand that Young can live with, one that fits with other wishes.

Talk quiets. The frame is getting more serious. Young was too casual, too confident. He’s missed three shots that he should have made, and Calum is ahead. Calum misses a shot he would usually miss. Young concentrates. He starts knocking in shots, making a break that requires skill. He needs to get as far as the blue to guarantee the win, and he gets there at the first attempt. They shake hands. Young thanks him for coming.