Friday 06 August 2 pm
Charlie threw the mobile phone onto the bed and looked at his meagre wardrobe with a sigh. This was going to be tricky. He'd just been told to be at the office at 6 pm, and while that was nothing unusual - he'd had similar messages the last couple of days - this time, McManus had specifically told Charlie to wear 'something nice', which left him a little worried. Apart from the fact that his definition of 'nice' was a little more elastic than McManus's, recent events had taken their toll on his clothes. He pulled out everything he had that might meet the definition and surveyed the clothes laid out on the bed with a worried frown.
Both his white button-down shirts were in need of repair. One was torn at the back, from having been forced up against the brick wall a week ago, and the other had two buttons missing after McManus had become a little eager to get his clothes off on Wednesday. He had a black button-down with red top-stitching and a logo picked out in rhinestones that he'd last worn to Churchill's a few weeks ago, but he didn't think McManus would approve of that one, and all the rest were T-shirts or rugby shirts. Of his trousers, he had one good pair of navy slacks that really needed dry-cleaning (though how he was ever going to afford that, he had no idea - he'd have to ask his Mum to take it in with her stuff), his leather trousers (the scratches now disguised by black marker pen) and three pairs of jeans, in varying states of cleanliness.
He took out his wallet and inspected the contents, feeling once again the burning resentment at being on the dole and having to watch every single penny. Would it be cheaper to buy two buttons, a packet of needles, and a spool of white thread, or to catch the bus up to his parents' house and then back into the city? He guessed it would cost about the same. If he went to his parents, though, he could take his slacks and ask Mum to get them cleaned, so he'd save more in the long run. And he if he took a load of washing as well, he'd save on the laundromat. Right then, he nodded to himself, at least that decision was easy - his parents' house it was.
He checked his watch - he'd have to get a move on if he was to be back in the city by 6. He grabbed a sports bag and started throwing clothes into it.
* * *
A couple of hours later he was sitting in the kitchen, tying off the knot on the second button, when Tessa walked in.
"Hi, Charlie."
"Hi, Tess."
She put her bag and a magazine down on the bench and poured herself a glass of cold water from the fridge. She frowned at the mess Charlie had made when he'd scattered the contents of the sewing basket all over the table. "What are you doing?" she asked, looking askance at the pile of fabric in his hand.
"Baking a cake," he snorted. "What does it look like, idiot? I'm mending my shirts."
"Have you got a date, or something?"
Charlie sighed. "Something like that."
He shook out the folds and examined his work critically. The buttons weren't a perfect match, and the stitches were a bit lumpy, but it would have to do. The other repair was less successful - he'd mended the tear, but the fabric was all bunched and puckered, making it look even worse.
He got up and went through to the laundry to iron it.
"Oy, Charlie."
"Yes?"
"Are you going to leave all this out here? Mum'll go ballistic."
Muttering under his breath, he went back and piled all the sewing materials back into the basket. Tess sat down and started to read her magazine.
"Tess?"
"Mmm?"
"Could you tell Mum I've left a pair of trousers here for the dry-cleaners?"
"OK."
"And I've put a load through the wash - I'll get them into the dryer but I can't hang around, so I'll pick them up on Sunday, OK?"
"Whatever." She went back to her magazine.
Charlie managed to iron both shirts without burning anything - a significant achievement - and even found a couple of hangers. He wandered back into the kitchen and hung the shirts up on a convenient drawer handle while he checked the fridge for food. He'd finished the cold meat, but there might be some cheese...
"Charlie!"
"What?" He straightened up fast, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the shelf.
Tess was holding up one of the recently-mended shirts, subjecting Charlie's handiwork to a critical examination. "You can't honestly be going to wear this?"
"What of it?"
"It's all puckered where you've tried to mend it. Just look at it!" She held it out at arms' length, horrified.
"Well, it's the best I can do," Charlie said, a little red-faced, grabbing it from her. "Oh, bugger, now it's all creased - I'll have to iron it again."
Theresa was looking at him with that peculiar mix of disgust, affection and sheer frustration that he'd seen on his Mum's face. "Oh, give it here," she sighed, taking it back from him. "Honestly, you can't leave it like that - it's awful. I'll fix it for you. Mum's got some special fusible stuff that'll help. It won't be invisible, but it’ll be a lot better than that."
"Really?" Charlie couldn't believe his luck. Theresa didn't often help him, and this would mean an awful lot, since he couldn't afford to replace the shirt until he got a new job.
"Yes, really. Honestly, I don’t know how you men manage, sometimes."
"We find pretty girls to do our mending." He grinned at her.
"Hah."
He glanced at the clock, and realised he'd wasted far too much time already - he was going to have to get a move on. He picked up the remaining white shirt and the leather trousers he'd remembered to bring with him and he headed upstairs. He changed in Kevin's room (since Bridget was now using the one that used to be his and Liam's), and then ran back down to throw his T-shirt and jeans into the laundry basket - with a little luck they'd be washed and dried by Sunday, too.
The kitchen was empty, but he knew Tess would still be around somewhere.
"I'm off, Tess," he called.
"Bye." The voice came from the lounge and Charlie stuck his head through the door.
"Don't forget to tell Mum about the dry-cleaning."
"OK." She looked up and smiled.
"And thanks for offering to mend the shirt."
"No problem. See you Sunday."
"Yeah, see you then."
He stepped out of the house and ran for the bus.
* * *
As Charlie had predicted, McManus was not impressed with his shirt.
"Those buttons don't match," he said in a quelling tone.
"Look, I'm sorry, but I don't have anything else to wear," Charlie protested, standing in the middle of the waiting room. "My sister's mending my other good shirt, and that's all I've got."
"Buy another one."
Charlie flushed and looked down, not wanting to meet McManus's eyes as he said, "Can't. On the dole, remember? I've no savings left at all. Couldn't even afford to get the trousers dry-cleaned - I had to leave them with Mum."
"What about that job you applied for?"
"I didn't get it - they called me this morning. They took someone else." His breath hitched as he made the admission, and he turned away so that McManus couldn't see how it had affected him. Funny how it never seemed to get any easier, being told you weren't wanted. And now that he really needed a job the rejection had stung him deeply, and he'd almost thrown the phone at the wall.
McManus said nothing. When Charlie looked up at him, he was standing motionless, lips pursed, obviously considering some course of action in his head. Eventually he gave Charlie a long-suffering look, sighed, and said "Let's go. We'll talk later."
They had just opened the door when the phone in McManus's office rang. Chris looked up at McManus, who shook his head, then pressed a couple of buttons and took the call.
"McManus and Son, good afternoon. No, I'm sorry, Mr McManus, he's just left for the day. Can I get him to call you? Aye, of course." He put the phone down, and gave McManus an apologetic look. "He said he'll call you on the mobile."
"Fucking shite. I don't have time for this." He spoke in an undertone, but there was no disguising the vehemence. He held out his car keys to Charlie. "The car's in the basement. Get it and bring it around the front. There's a loading zone you can wait in."
"OK." Charlie took the keys and headed for the stairs. He had barely taken three steps when McManus' mobile phone rang. He stopped and looked back, but McManus waved him off, and he headed for the stairs. Behind him he heard McManus answering the phone, his voice abrupt and unwelcoming and his accent rapidly becoming thicker than Charlie had ever heard it before.
"Rory McManus. Aye, Da, how are you? No, I left a wee while ago." There was a short pause as McManus listened to his father. The door started to close but Charlie still caught the next phrase before it shut completely: "Och, Da, it's six o'clock on a Friday, ye ken, an' I'm no' bloody wedded to the office."
Charlie grinned to himself as he hurried down the stairs to the basement. It was funny to hear McManus on the defensive, making excuses to his father like anyone else - he could almost sympathise with the man.
The car park wasn't large, but it took him a while to find the dark blue Camry, which was tucked into a dim alcove. "Yeah, nice and anonymous," he muttered to himself. "Bloody impossible if you ask me. Why can't he drive a flashy gold Rolls-Royce like any other self-respecting criminal?"
Once found, though, he had to admit that the Camry was easily manoeuvred out of its space and up the exit ramp. He came out of the building into the narrow lane that ran split the block in half, and turned left. As he pulled up outside the main entrance to the office he saw McManus waiting for him, looking even grimmer than before. He wasn't surprised to see McManus pull open the passenger door and slide in without a word.
"Where to?"
"Just drive." McManus was leaning back against the headrest, his eyes closed. He looked tired, and Charlie wondered what the phone call had entailed.
"You've got to tell me more than that, man. North? South? East? West?"
"Just fucking drive. I don't care." McManus snapped, his eyes still closed. "South."
"OK. South it is."
Charlie flicked the indicator, turned the car left into Princess St and took the A34 out of the city. The streets were still congested with Friday rush hour traffic and progress was slow at first. A glance to the left showed him that McManus was staring straight ahead, the frown still fixed to his face, one hand picking at a loose thread on the seatbelt. Charlie didn't speak, guessing that McManus didn't want to be disturbed, but concentrated on his driving, trying to smooth out the car's stop-start progress through the city streets. He drove past the M60 orbital and the turn-off to the airport, and after that it wasn't long before they left the city and the suburbs behind, travelling instead through farmland and forest.
A-road or not, there were a few twists and turns to be negotiated, but the Camry was a lot easier to handle than his father's monstrosity (a 1988 Volvo) and gave him no problems. The landscape to his left was glowing in the early evening sun, while the view to the right was veiled in the lengthening shadows. Charlie felt absurdly happy for no reason at all, and smiled as the car ate up the miles.
McManus hadn't said another word since getting into the car. He appeared to have fallen asleep, or maybe he was just thinking. Charlie risked a slightly longer look. No, he was definitely asleep - leaning back, eyes closed, hands relaxed and curled loosely in his lap. In repose, his face lost the hard expression he habitually wore, making him look younger and more vulnerable. He looked tired, as well, as if he didn't sleep at all on the nights Charlie wasn't with him.
Charlie wondered, briefly, about the business McManus ran. He'd never seen any evidence of the legitimate side, the office and domestic cleaning services that were supposedly supplied by the company, and he wondered if that part actually existed. Of McManus's money-lending activities, he'd seen plenty, but he had no illusions that he'd seen the full extent of it, or the worst of it. He was beginning to suspect that however bad his own case was, he and Liam were getting off fairly lightly in comparison with some of McManus's defaulting debtors.
And then there was McManus Senior to consider. Twice he'd heard fragments of conversation that suggested McManus and his father did not get on well. Perhaps he resented being under his father's control - well, Charlie could sympathise with that, since he'd hate to have to work for his own father. Or perhaps McManus's side of the business wasn't making as much money as his father expected - there was that incident the previous Monday where things obviously hadn't gone as planned, for instance, and McManus had shouted down the telephone.
He wondered what roles Ken and Chris played in the organisation - beyond the obvious, that is. He hadn't seen much of Ken lately, but he'd seen a fair bit of Chris, and he couldn't quite work out the relationship between McManus and Chris. Chris was always deferential, but not exactly subservient - definitely not the stereotypical gangster's sidekick. Was he employed by McManus senior or junior? Charlie wasn't sure. Chris was a bit older than McManus - middle or late thirties - and had a Glasgow accent, which should mean he was McManus Senior's man. Ken was about thirty and had a Manchester accent, and had obviously been hired by McManus, so that should make him McManus's man. But somehow he felt that logic had got it wrong in this case - it just didn't feel right. Chris was the one that McManus took with him more than Ken, and Chris was the one who stayed in the room while Ken minded the door, so he was presumably the more trusted one. It certainly wasn't as simple as it looked at first glance.
He put the problem aside for the moment and continued driving south, following the signs that said A34 whenever he came to a junction. The sun drifted down towards the hills on his right and the air became golden, making everything outside look even warmer than it was already. Charlie adjusted the air-conditioning as the sun poured in through the windows and made him sweat - dark blue might be anonymous but it certainly absorbed the heat.
Half an hour later, the sun was just setting when he got to the nest of roundabouts leading into Newcastle-under-Lyme. He had a few sticky moments there, and went around a couple of them twice, but eventually he found himself back on the right road. He glanced to his left, but McManus hadn’t even stirred.
He saw a sign for Wolverhampton, and wondered if he should just stop in a by-way or a village somewhere. He was getting tired - he hadn't ever driven for so long a time at once - and surely McManus hadn't meant them to go so far out of Manchester? He checked the petrol gauge, which still showed more than half a tank. They could probably get to Portsmouth on that, he mused, and gave a quiet chuckle to himself as he contemplated McManus's reaction to waking up on a ferry to the continent. Er... on second thoughts, maybe not. OK. He'd drive south as far as he could and stop at Portsmouth, or if the car needed refilling, or if McManus woke up, whichever one came first.
As it turned out, McManus woke up about ten minutes later, when he had to put the brakes on suddenly to avoid a lorry that pulled out in front of him. The brakes squealed and the seatbelt bit painfully into his shoulder as the car slowed.
"Fucking mongrel," Charlie cursed the lorry driver. "Couldn't you wait just a few more seconds for me to go past?"
He heard McManus straighten up and look around.
"Sorry about that," he said, his eyes fixed on the road. "Welcome back to the land of the living."
"Where are we?"
"Coming up on Birmingham."
"What?!"
"You've been asleep for a while."
"Oh, fuck." McManus looked at his watch, cursed again, and fumbled for his phone, jabbing at the numbers in hurried sequence. "David. It's McManus. I know, I know. Look, I'm in Birmingham. Yeah, long story. I'm not going to make it back to Manchester tonight, so we'll have to re-schedule. Mmm... not sure. Better make it Monday. Yeah, OK. Bye." He put the phone back in his jacket pocket and looked over at Charlie. " Birmingham?"
Charlie's grip on the steering wheel tightened a little, though he could tell that McManus wasn't really angry. "Well, you said to drive south, so that's what I was doing." He gave a tentative grin. "I was going to stop at Portsmouth, though, in case you were wondering. Didn't think you'd fancy waking up in France."
"No. Don't speak French."
"Neither do I. Would be fun, though."
McManus tried to stretch as best he could while still confined by the seatbelt, then rubbed his shoulder. "I think my idea of fun is more along the lines of a meal, some petrol and a fast drive back to Manchester."
Charlie didn't think much of that idea. He was tired from so much driving already and he honestly didn't know if McManus was proposing to drive back himself or to make Charlie do it. "Well, I wouldn't say no to the meal, but is there any particular reason to hurry back?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why not stay here the night? Have a meal, yeah, then maybe go to a club, have a few drinks, find a hotel, drive home in the morning. More relaxing than getting back to Manchester at midnight. But it's your decision - your money, anyway."
McManus was silent. Charlie waited it out patiently. He was getting used to the fact that McManus rarely made snap decisions - there was always a minute or two of consideration before he decided on any course of action.
"Aye, why not," breathed McManus at last. "I've no reason to be back tonight. I don't know Birmingham, though - do you?"
"Not at all. It'll be an adventure." He said it with a grin and was surprised to see it answered by a quizzical look on McManus's face.
"An adventure?" McManus echoed. "I hardly think that getting lost in Birmingham qualifies as an adventure."
"Who says we're going to get lost? They do sell street maps in Birmingham, you know." Charlie was grinning widely, now that he was confident that McManus wasn't going to be moody and bad-tempered. "Or we could explore the countryside."
"If you think I'm going on some sort of safari into the deepest darkest wilds of the midlands, you've got another think coming, lad. Cities I can cope with. Even cities I'm about to get lost in. But I draw the line at anything that might be labelled Nature."
"All right. But look on the bright side - if we don't know Birmingham, Birmingham doesn't know us. If we wanted to, we could do something really wild and no one would care."
"Something wild? Like what?"
"Like... run naked down the main street. Climb a fountain. Steal a policeman's helmet. Drive 'round and 'round the square singing Monty Python songs."
McManus gave him a jaundiced look, and muttered "Students," under his breath. Aloud, he said, "I think you'd find people would care about that."
"Well, all right then, maybe something a bit less likely to get us arrested... Gay bar?"
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"You're no fun."
"I'm sober."
"Does that mean you're fun when you're drunk? I haven't seen you drunk."
"No, I'm no fun when I'm drunk either."
Charlie sighed. "All right then. Plan C: good meal, few drinks, quiet hotel. OK?"
"Sounds more like it."
"Sounds boring, more like it," he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.
McManus ignored him, stretching his neck, trying to ease out the kinks. "I don't think my neck liked me sleeping in the car," he grumbled.
Charlie sympathised. "I could give you a neck rub," he offered, though why he was offering to be nice to someone who was planning the Most Boring Night in England he had no idea.
McManus looked at him like a puppy who'd just been promised a walk. "Really? That would be smashing."
"You got it." Charlie smiled at him indulgently.
McManus smiled back - a wide, open, delighted smile - and Charlie felt his heart lurch. It was the first time he'd ever seen a full, genuine smile on the man's face, and it hit him right in the gut. He inhaled sharply and gripped the steering wheel. Driving along an unfamiliar road was not the best time to have a spasm of lust, but he really couldn't help it: the man had no right to be suddenly so damned attractive!
He forced his attention back onto the road.
* * *
In the end, Charlie's confidence was justified. A friendly petrol station attendant gave them the name of a small hotel with parking, just off Suffolk St in the city centre, and the hotel concierge was sympathetic to their story of a business meeting gone overtime. Very shortly they found themselves in a quiet room on a non-smoking floor facing away from the street.
There was a bistro in the next block, where the food was excellent and cheap (though the wines, McManus said, were over-priced piss) and the atmosphere congenial. The waiter was so camp that they didn't need Charlie's finely-honed intuition to work out his orientation, but he was attentive without being intrusive, and his recommendation from the menu was superb. Charlie took the opportunity of a quick trip to the gents to ask him for directions to the nearest late-night chemist. Once he had those memorised, he asked, "Where can we go to have a few drinks and maybe a dance?"
"Oh, just turn left when you get out of here and keep walking - you'll find all sorts of places. The gay district's about a quarter of a mile down the road in Hurst St."
"Thanks, but I doubt we'll be heading that far."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought... well, I thought you were a couple."
Charlie smiled ruefully. "Not precisely." He didn't elaborate, but headed back to his seat and relayed the waiter's information to McManus.
McManus still wasn't all that keen on walking any great distance - and was still firmly against the gay bar idea - but he was even less keen on drinking beer at hotel prices, so they followed the waiter's directions and they soon found a lively tavern-cum-nightclub where the beat of the music could be heard clearly from the street. Charlie grinned to himself as McManus made sure there were both sexes present before agreeing to enter, and chose not to inform him that several of the men were definitely gay. Probably some of the women were, too, but his senses weren't as well-tuned to that.
They went inside, McManus still grumbling at the cover charge, and made a beeline for the bar. McManus shook his head sadly when he saw the truly appalling range of beer available, and swore when he saw the prices for spirits. "I thought this was supposed to be cheap!" he muttered.
"Fashion is never cheap," said Charlie. And we're in now, so there's no point in wasting the cover charge just to go somewhere else."
After a few moments' careful deliberation, McManus bought them each a bottle of Cascade Premium Lager and they made their way to a table that was just being vacated by a group of very drunk teenagers.
"Fucking Australian beer," muttered McManus as he sat down. "I hate Australian beer." He looked morosely at the glass.
"It's not so bad," said Charlie after his first mouthful. "Better than Foster's."
"Fucking horse piss would be better than Foster's," grumbled McManus, but he took a sip anyway, and his expression lightened a fraction. He said nothing more, but his second sip was taken with a little more enthusiasm than the first, and before long the glass was empty. Without another word he got up and brought back another two bottles.
"Thanks," said Charlie, smiling as McManus pushed one of the bottle over to him.
"Make the most of it, lad, you're driving, remember."
"I'll work it off." He grinned as he poured out the fresh beer and took a mouthful. Really, it wasn't that bad at all.
"That you will." McManus smirked.
Charlie flushed. "I meant that I'd dance it off."
McManus looked around at the people on the dance floor. There were lots of people out there, both men and women, and from here it was hard to tell who was dancing with whom. There were a few people in outlandish gear - goths, punks, bikie-leather types - but most people were in "normal" club attire, gyrating more-or-less purposefully to the beat of the music. He looked back at Charlie. "Going to dance on your own then? 'Cos I'm not getting up there with you."
Charlie gave a slow, sultry smile. "Just watch me." He put his beer down beside McManus's and moved towards the dance floor, though he was moving in time with the music long before he got there. He felt the music flow through him and let himself go, hips swaying, arms rising up and eyes half closing. His path soon crossed that of a tall, well-built blond, wearing a tight red T-shirt and tighter jeans.
"Well, who are you, pretty boy?"
"Name's Charlie."
"You're new."
"Just visiting. Manchester."
They angled towards each other and danced in time for a few minutes but Charlie wasn't really interested in him and he let his attention wander, his eyes roving over the crowd, taking in the variety of clothing and make-up and physique on display.
"Looking for anyone? Or... anything?" The blond sounded a tad petulant.
"No, not tonight - just dancing. Sorry."
"Shame. Let me know if you change you mind. I'm Tim."
"Sure, Tim."
They drifted apart, and Charlie moved on, undulating and twisting his way round the floor like an eel in a pond, stopping to flirt with a dancer here or there, but never staying with one person for more than a minute. He wasn't on the pull, after all. He didn't need to make a good impression, didn't need to be on the lookout for that spark of interest - he already had a partner for the night (even if he didn't have much choice in the matter) and it left him free simply to enjoy the music and dancing.
He glanced back at McManus from time to time, but the man was just sitting at the table, sipping at his beer and watching the dancers - well, Charlie, anyway - intently. At one point Charlie caught a glimpse of someone talking to him, but when he looked again the man had gone and McManus was scowling into his glass.
Eventually Charlie's gyrations brought him back around to McManus's side of the room and he flopped down into the chair with an exaggerated sigh and grabbed his half-empty glass of beer.
"Worn out already, are you?"
"Just getting started, mate. I could go all night." He took a swallow from the glass and stood up gain. "Come on," he said, holding out his hand. "Dance with me."
"No."
"Oh, come on. Please? No one will see you but me." He batted his eyelashes and smiled at McManus, hoping to make him change his mind. He felt really good tonight. He hadn't been clubbing in ages and was getting high just on the atmosphere. He wanted McManus to have a good time too, to make him feel some of the adrenaline along with him, maybe get him revved up a little before going to bed. He added a sexy little pout for good measure.
"I'm not your fucking boyfriend," McManus spat out, "so don't act like it. I told you, I don't dance. Now finish your drink and follow me, 'cos you've reminded me why I brought you." He stood and headed for the toilets, the set of his shoulders not auguring well for the rest of the evening.
Charlie felt himself brought back to earth with a thud. He stared, stunned, at McManus's retreating back and then shook his head. Every fucking time, he thought. Every time I think he's not so bad, he goes and gives me a slap in the face. He drained his glass and set it back on the table with a slam, then followed McManus.
The toilets had obviously started the evening off bright and clean, but now, at nearly midnight, they were littered with rubbish - scraps of toilet paper, sweet-wrappers, cigarette packets and - yeuch - a used condom. The air-fresheners couldn't quite neutralise the smell of stale urine and someone's putrid bowel movement. Charlie wrinkled his nose in disgust.
McManus had strode into the handicapped stall, and held the door open. Charlie gave a sideways look at two men standing by the urinal, but neither of them seemed to be paying him any attention. Then he heard the a deep groan and a muttered "Yes, right there," from one of the other stalls, and realised that two men in one cubicle was hardly a novelty here.
McManus closed and locked the door behind him, then gestured to his belt. Charlie undid the belt and the trousers, then knelt down, thankful that this patch of floor, at least, seemed reasonably clean. He eased the trousers down over McManus's hips and reached into the navy silk boxers (did the man buy any other colour? he wondered) to bring out the cock that was only just starting to stir.
He wondered how pissed off McManus was with him. If he was seriously annoyed, there was every chance he'd grab Charlie's head and fuck him that way, and he really, really hated that. He sighed to himself. He'd just have to make it good for him... as usual. He gave McManus's cock a couple of long, slow pulls, then took it into his mouth. It wasn't long before it was hard and filling his mouth and throat, and Charlie slipped his hand in between McManus's legs to give his balls a gentle squeeze through the silk boxers.
The sounds from the other cubicle were getting louder - like the soundtrack to a really bad porn film, thought Charlie. He felt absurdly grateful for the fact that McManus stayed silent as Charlie brought him to his climax, giving only a soft sigh as he let his breath out.
McManus remained silent as Charlie adjusted his clothing for him, but once his belt was done up he grasped Charlie's arm and helped him up. He only said "Not bad," but the tone was mild, not disapproving, so Charlie smiled to himself as he rubbed his sore knees.
As they walked out of the handicapped stall, they came face to face with someone coming in - a tall man, rat-faced, non-descript and almost totally forgettable, dressed in grey, with a chunky gold chain around his neck that made him look even more colourless. He looked at them, curiously, his eyes lingering on McManus for a moment, before moving past them to the urinals.
"Come on," said McManus gruffly, and pushed Charlie out of the door.