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from his saddlebag. A good long swig and then another, and then he doused the front of his shirt and jeans in it. If he couldn’t be paralytic he had to at least smell like it.
    If Driver could see him now, she’d think he really was the beast he looked. It’d been a nice distraction spending the afternoon with her, after the crappy start to the morning and near disaster of the bumper-car fun. A woman who wore all her clothes and spoke in a quiet voice. She had a good figure on her under that uniform. Hard to tell size, women’s sizes were a mystery. He wished he could’ve seen her face. Really all he could see were full lips and lovely clean skin. She’d kept her head down or averted as if she didn’t want to be seen. Maybe shy, maybe cautious. Which brought him to the phone stalker.
    He wasn’t happy about that. No way it was a customer. No ring, not a skerrick of jewellery, so no husband, it had to be an old boyfriend. Or someone she owed money too. That was a possibility. It was an expensive car, but she might only be the hired driver, not the owner, and her clothing was cheap, both the fabric and the cut. She obviously packed her own lunch and supplies, another pointer that she was frugal or broke.
    There was no way she’d show up tomorrow and that was for the best. It’d been a dumb idea, a moment of weakness to ask her to. At least he’d been smart enough to keep her away from Robinson Street.
    When he was a couple of houses away he started singing, Chumbawumba’s Tubthumping , a kick-A drinking song. He sang the one line, about getting knocked down and getting back up again, over and over slurring and stumbling more than his knee wanted him too. That helped with the slurring. Fuck it hurt .
    He sang a bit louder when he was outside number 12. That was to prompt Neighbourhood Watch to stay the hell inside his house tonight.
    When he got to the front steps of number 10, he dumped his bag and sat, belting the line out again. It brought Maisy out.
    “Fucking hell matey, are you in trouble. You didn’t make one delivery on time. And being drunk on the job—you really are a dickhead.”
    “Aw, Maise, don tell Wack.”
    “You told the whole street, Fetch. Nuthin’ I can do. And what’d you do to Nikki? She went out this morning doin’ somethin’ for you an never come back.”
    “She never?” he said, eyes half closed, but watching Maisy carefully.
    Wacker’s woman wasn’t stupid, despite the way she chose to speak and the impression she gave by wearing next to nothing. She was more than a match for Wacker intellectually, but he dominated her physically, and not in a good, mutually acceptable, everyone’s having fun way, which didn’t explain why she stayed with him. That Fetch had never understood. He’d gotten close to Maisy. He played the hopelessly devoted lapdog, and she mothered him, she told him stuff he’d never find out otherwise.
    “Oh darlin,’ what happened to your pretty face?”
    He hung his head. “I didn’t see him coming, Maise. But I won.”
    “Didja darlin’. Come on inside and I’ll clean you up. You better tell Wacker the truth now, you hear. He had two calls to complain about you being late this afternoon and you know how he hates that.”
    He let Maisy drag him upright and leaned heavily on her as she moved him down the hall and into the kitchen. Wacker was at the table, a newspaper, open at the racing form guide, spread out in front of him. Since the clubhouse burned down; arson, a selfie for the insurance, this is where you found him. He was smoking a joint, but Fetch knew it wouldn’t make him any mellower. He didn’t even look up.
    “What the fuck is your excuse?”
    “Wack, I—”
    “He got in a fight, Wack. You know he’s a stupid bugger, leave him alone.”
    “He is a stupid bugger, Maise. Too stupid to work for me. Clean him up and cut him loose.”
    Standing behind Maisy, Fetch tried to keep his expression blank. But this was a change. Wacker preferred