“You know what I need, I need a pint. Brogan’s?” Steve hitches his satchel up his shoulder. “You’re buying. You still owe me for Rory not crying.” “What’re you on about? He bawled his eyes—” “I thought you were done being a tosser—” “Nice try. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna be a pushover—” “Ah, good, ’cause I was dead worried about that—” I take one more look up at the rest of my life, waiting for me inside those neat sturdy squares of gold light. Then we start off across the courtyard, arguing, to get a few pints and a few hours’ kip before it’s time to head back and find out what’s in there.
