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had all the shitty jobs at London City.’
    ‘Exactly.’ Drennan grinned and then burped loudly. ‘I like it,’ he said, pointing to the picture before glancing around the room and nodding his appreciation. ‘I like it all. Your place. Your girlfriend. You’ve done all right for yourself, you canny bastard. I envy you, Scott. But I’m glad for you, too. After everything that happened, you know?’
    ‘Come on, you stupid cunt. I’ll take you home.’
    ‘Nah,’ said Drennan. ‘I’ll walk up to the King’s Road and get a cab. With any luck the driver will recognise me and give me a free ride. That’s what usually happens.’
    ‘And that’s how you end up in the newspapers for getting yourself thrown out of another pub by the landlord.’ I took him by the arm. ‘I’m driving you, and that’s final.’
    Drennan took his elbow out of my hand with fingers that were remarkably strong and shook his head. ‘You stay here with that nice wee lassie of yours. I’ll get a taxi.’
    ‘Straight home.’
    ‘I promise.’
    ‘At least let me come with you some of the way,’ I said.
    I walked Drennan up to the King’s Road where I hailed him a cab. I paid the driver in advance and, when I was helping Drennan into the cab, I slipped a couple of hundred quid in his coat pocket. I was about to close the cab door when he turned and caught my hand and held it tightly. There were tears in his pale blue eyes.
    ‘Thanks, pal.’
    ‘For what?’
    ‘For being a pal, I guess. What else is there for people like you and me?’
    ‘You don’t have to thank me for that. You of all people, Matt.’
    ‘Thanks anyway.’
    ‘Now fuck off home before I go and get my violin.’
    There was a man sitting on the pavement in front of the ATM. I gave him a twenty although frankly it would have been better if I’d given him the two hundred. The guy in front of the ATM was at least sober. Even as I’d put the money in Drenno’s pocket I’d known it was a mistake, just as I knew it was a mistake not to drive him home myself, but that’s how it is sometimes; you forget what it’s like dealing with drunks, how self-destructive they can be. Especially a drunk like Drenno.

3
    When I got back to my flat I found Sonja preparing dinner in the kitchen. She was an excellent cook and had made a delicious-looking moussaka.
    ‘Has he gone?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    I inhaled the moussaka greedily. ‘We could have given Drenno some of that,’ I said. ‘A bit of food inside him was probably just what he needed.’
    ‘It’s not food he needs,’ she said. ‘Besides, I’m glad he’s gone.’
    ‘You’re supposed to be the sympathetic one.’
    ‘What makes you say that?’
    ‘Because you’re a psychiatrist. I sort of thought that it was part of the job.’
    ‘It’s not sympathy my patients need, it’s understanding. There’s a difference. Drenno doesn’t want sympathy. And I’m afraid he’s all too easy to understand. He wants something that isn’t possible. To turn back the clock. His problems will be solved the minute he recognises that fact and adjusts his life and behaviour accordingly. Like you did. If he doesn’t, it’s plain to see where it will end. He’s that rare thing: a self-destructive personality who really wants to destroy himself. He’s a classic case.’
    ‘You might be right.’
    ‘Of course I’m right. I’m a doctor.’
    ‘So you say.’ I put my arms around her. ‘But from where I’m standing you’re the best-looking WAG I’ve ever seen.’
    ‘I’ll take that as a compliment even though I regard the idea of looking like Coleen Rooney as anathema.’
    ‘I don’t think Coleen knows Ann Athema.’
    We were finishing dinner at the breakfast bar and considering an early night when the telephone rang. The caller ID showed it was Corinne Rendall on the phone, Viktor Sokolnikov’s secretary. He was not someone I was used to speaking to very much, a fact of which I was sometimes glad. Like many people