Chapter SevenThe White Ship is at the far end of Portswood, an hour’s walk from the city centre. There was a time, years ago, when not a night would go by without Felix and Michael ending up in one pub or another. Their heads foggy with drink, they would sit and talk, or else sip quietly while they melted under the twang of acoustic strings, a guitar solo or perhaps the muddy sound of a man or woman giving voice to love, life, heartbreak and other human things made honest by the breath in their lungs. Nothing sheds ghosts like good drink and a little company.
Before they leave, they linger a while on Felix’s balcony. Conversation turns quickly to the evening ahead. It is a long time since they have made plans to drink midweek, but Thursday is the White Ship’s live music night, and Michael
