Frankie stood in the middle of the road, watching the tail lights of Clem’s beaten up blue Citroen disappear around the bend. What the hell was going on here? One minute they’d all been sitting in the bar, eyeing the girl playing pool, the next Clem was calling him a moron and storming out of the pub with the other two following like a pair of witless kids. Some homecoming this was turning out to be. The lads should’ve been falling over themselves to hear what life was like on the inside. Instead, here they were treating him like something the cat threw up.

    He was still reeling from the shock of learning they’d all gone straight. Al had joined the army and was just back from a stint in Iraq, Jam Jar Jimmy, once the fastest get away driver north of the Thames, had given it up to become a traffic warden, and Clem – Clem, Mr Super Cool himself – was a night watchman, married with a sprog on the way. Must’ve addled his brains, too, if a harmless remark about some big boobed blonde was going to have him abandoning a mate in the middle of nowhere. Jeez, if a bird was gonna put the goods on show like that, surely it’d be rude not to notice?

    He shivered and fumbled in his pocket, wondering if he had the money for a cab. But as his fingers closed around the few scant coins he knew it wasn’t going to be anything like enough. Tonight was supposed to be their shout. He wouldn’t need to pay for a thing, they’d said, not on his first night of freedom. Well, cheers, lads - thanks for nothing.