I was going to ask her whether Trev was in yet, but I could already hear him crowing like a cockerel and yelling, ‘Who’s the Daddy!’ in the pool room. I took my drink over. Trev was cueing up a long red and sighted me over his bridging hand. ‘Look what the cat dragged in!’ he yelled, smashing the ball into the top corner pocket.
His cueing hand was covered with a plaster cast. I asked him what had happened to it. He managed to look both sheepish and proud. He’d been in a fight down at the King Bill, he said, and he’d hit this creep over the head with a crate of beer. And as the bloke had gone down, he’d stupidly punched him on the top of his head as hard as he could and broken a bone in his hand. He’s like Africa is Trev: there’s always something new.
Jeremy Clarke in his Low Life column, the Spectator