If it was still there, of course. Whatever happened to that hole? A few years previously, it was all scientists banged on about, now they were on to rising sea levels and who knew what else. Kitkat drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, nodding and umming as the occupant of the passenger seat wittered on, barely pausing for breath. ‘So, Clarkey, right, he knows this bloke in Sefton who reckons he can get these knock-off Nikes. We’re going into business doing car-booters . . .’ Kitkat gazed at the gap on his left hand where his ring finger had once been. The rest of his fingers were wrapped around the steering wheel, leaving the small stump poking upwards. It was aching because of the cold, though the mild pain was marginally more agreeable than listening to Chris Green’s latest ploy to get rich quick. The bloke was a moron, a disaster waiting to happen – still he was the only person who’d volunteered to spend New Year’s Eve with Kitkat, making him, by default, Kitkat’s best mate.
