“SO THERE WE ARE,” SAID Damien, “the five of us, coming out of the Moulin Rouge, around 3 in the morning. We get outside, and we see that Sam’s got blood all over his face. Now, Sam might be a bit strange sometimes, but even he doesn’t walk around with blood all over his face. I mean, he isn’t Polish, is he?”
There were a couple of grins at this, as we looked around to see whether Rafael was in the club. There were four of us sitting around a table. Damien had grabbed it after some skins had got up to go to the dancefloor, and Ian and I had joined him on our way back from the bar. Morag had come through with her promise to buy me a drink. In fact, with her newfound prosperity, she had sprung for an entire round. About half a pint of that had accidentally ended up in my lap, for which she
