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did not matter, since Joe the barman (known as nothing but) seemed to appreciate the effort. When Alistair had walked into the miniature saloon during the slack hour between the end of post-working-hour sippers and the start of serious evening drinkers, the smile on the barman’s face lit the dim interior. Joe knew everyone by name and with minimal supervision from the owner, he ruled this little roost with all the efficiency of a quartermaster. The cocktails, along with the military memorabilia, were only an optional extra to attract those seeking either novelty or the quickest road to oblivion. Alistair wished they would take down all those regimental badges on the wall, as well as the ceremonial sword and the crossed bayonets which did not go with the immaculate chintz. He drank like someone who has never really learned the habit, ordered the usual half.
    â€˜Ah,Mr Eliot! What a pleasure. No need to come into the dark. Sit outside, I’ll bring you the usual. I feel like one myself. Get into the sun, will you. Tomorrow it’ll rain …’
    The man never showed sign of drink. He looked like the ex-soldier he was (ex-barman, officers’ mess, sir, he had told Alistair once), so the latter supposed he had long since overcome the alcoholic hazards of his profession. Alistair did not mind the chattiness, he liked it, in fact. It was a change from the taciturnity of many of his clients, and once he got home he was in for a long evening of holding several conversations at once.
    â€˜Family well, Mr Eliot?’
    Alistair was a literally minded and humble man. If anyone asked him a question, he answered it fully. Joe Boyce thus knew quite a lot about his family.
    â€˜Well, Jane and her brother have been fighting like cat and dog. Funny that, they used to play like puppies and in between bouts of scrapping and when they aren’t leaving marks all over one another, they still do. Strange, isn’t it? I don’t understand these relationships, really, do you? I was a one and only. I would have loved a brother.’
    â€˜Well, you say that, Mr Eliot, but they can be a mixed blessing, you know.’ It was one of Joe’s virtues, Alistair decided, that he not only spoke softly, but also expansively. Alistair loved to listen. Part of him did not want to be a barrister at all: he was sick of talking.
    â€˜Me, I’m like yourself, the only one. They got rid of me into the army as soon as they could, don’t blame them. But my wife, now, she had a brother and he was a real trial to her. Needed looking after every day of his life. Always on the scrounge for money, always in trouble with the law, drunk as a skunk. I tell you, Mr Eliot, he nearly had us divorced. Because you can’t turn away your brother, can you? You have to let him into your house, come what may, even if he is a disgrace.’
    â€˜Yes, I suppose you do,’ Alistair agreed, genuinely curious. ‘And then how do you get rid of him?’ He had a sudden vision of how Emily might deal with a recalcitrant relative of his own. The thought was not comforting.
    â€˜Well,this one, Mr Eliot, he got rid of himself. After I’d tried to befriend him and everything. Got him a job, even, but no, he wasn’t having anything, that one. You can’t stop a man if he wants to kill himself, can you?’
    â€˜Is that what he did?’
    â€˜Yes, you could put it like that, in a manner of speaking. Got himself killed in a fight.’
    â€˜Sad,’ Alistair murmered, the lager suddenly sour on his tongue, even though Joe spoke airily, as if the incident were many moons ago and a hundred miles from here. Pub brawls, affray, the spontaneous formation of little gangs to exact petty revenges were all part of his stock in trade. He had dabbled in more cases of manslaughter than he could count, and suddenly did not want to talk about it. As usual, Joe Boyce sensed the need to move the conversation aside, in the same way