The place now glowed in his mind as a refuge, a sanctuary, a place of promise and of hope. It was here, after all, that he could speak plainly and on the level with the one person in this world who would actually understand, who could show him glimpses of ‘behind the scenes’, of the secret reality behind the daily façade of 1973. Walking into the Arms, Sam was confronted by a sorry array of lunchtime drinkers, unwashed, dishevelled men with nothing better to do than install themselves at the bar and avoid either work or the wife for as long as possible. Cigarettes burned silently between yellow-stained fingers. Bloodshot eyes scanned the racing pages of crumpled newspapers. And there, at the helm as ever, was Nelson, topping up the float in the till with change he emptied out of cloth bags. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam and acknowledged him with a grin. ‘Ah, mah ol’ pal Sam!’ His Jamaican accent was back with a vengeance.
