There are only two types of people who can be found in a public swimming pool on a Tuesday morning – lunatics, and people who are only there on the advice of their doctors. Victor Meldrew was very much the latter.
'More exercise, Mr Meldrew,' Dr Kapoor had said, poking a finger at Victor's midsection as he put his shirt back on. 'It'll do you the world of good. Otherwise, you'll be looking at a heart attack before you even reach sixty-five.'
Victor had frowned. 'I am sixty-five!'
He had made the mistake of echoing this advice to Margaret, who then decided it was her mission in life to make sure Victor took on the lifestyle of an Olympian. At the moment, this meant arming him with a pair of fire engine-red swimming trunks she'd bought from the charity shop for a very reasonable 35p and dispatching him to the local health centre for an hour's splashing about in the water like a geriatric Adam Peaty.
Just an extra hour's exercise a week can put five years on your life, Dr Kapoor told him. Yes, but if it was five years spent eating muesli and stewing in other people's bacteria for £5.50 an hour, what was the point? Especially if it was in a pair of trunks that Beau Brummel found find gaudy.
Victor emerged from the stall in said trunks, and approached the bank of wooden lockers. 'Oh, bugger it,' he muttered, patting himself down. 'Forgot to bring 50p for the locker.'
'Never mind, Vic,' replied Albert, cheerfully. 'Lots of room in mine – stick 'em in!'
Albert Somerset was about five years older than Victor, and (as was significantly rarer) a good deal balder. They'd met at the pool two or three weeks ago, commiserating over the riff-raff that inhabited the pool. At present, their favourite topic was the Professional Amateur. Of the two types of people you'd find in a public swimming pool on a Tuesday morning, these are most certainly the former. Dressed invariably in a black Speedo and swimming cap, they'd thunder through the water like a riptide, splashing all around them without a care in the world, clearly determined to shave another microsecond off their personal best, and damn anyone else who had the audacity to use the pool at the same time as them.
Victor stuffed his belongings into Albert's locker with an awkward word of thanks. Grinning, Albert dropped his coin into the slot, locked the door and latched the key's rubber strap to his wrist as they made their way out into the pool. 'You'll have to owe me the 25p,' Albert said with a laugh. 'Don't worry, I'll put it on your slate.'
'Bloody kids in again,' grumbled Victor, as he saw a trio of teenage boys splashing each other in one corner of the deep end. 'I mean, the pamphlet says in black and white, "Eleven to twelve, adult swimmers only" – so what are those little bastards doing in here? Not swimming, for one thing.'
'That's what I like about you, Vic,' said Albert, slapping him on the back. 'You've always got this refreshing, sunny disposition about you. Honestly, you'd make Wednesday Addams look like Pollyanna.'
Despite himself, Victor cracked a smile. That was Albert, through and through. Whenever Victor stated to grouse and complain, Albert would simply shrug it off and let him crack on. But whereas Victor would transform the object into scorn, Albert would make a joke of it. If they hadn't both retired, they'd probably have a promising career as a light entertainment double act ahead of them.
As far as Victor could tell, the man's only flaw was his stinginess. Once in a while, they'd forgo the pool and have a pint at the Running Horses down the road instead – and somehow, Albert had constantly made it into the pub just as Victor had paid for the first (and only round). At least he seemed aware of the tendency: 'Bandit, they used to call me in the Navy,' Albert had regaled over a pint of Ruddles. 'Whenever I walked into the pub, they'd whistle the theme track from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.'
Still. It was only money, wasn't it?
As they stood under the tepid trickle of water before entering the pool, Victor found his attention drawn to a sign on the wall nearby: PLEASE DO NOT USE THIS POOL IF YOU ARE SUFFERING FROM ANY OF THE FOLLOWING CONDITIONS: URINARY TRACT INFECTIONS, DIARRHEA, OPEN SORES AND LESIONS, CONSTIPATION.
Victor tutted. Was a sign like that really necessary? I mean, did people really find themselves on the loo, the effluent equivalent of Niagara Falls rushing out of their backside, and think, what I need right now is to go swimming? Surely not.
Now ready, the two men lowered themselves into the pool, feeling the icy water bite into their lower portions. Victor briefly considered confronting the three yobs now shoving each other under the water, but ultimately decided against it. Instead, he contented himself by imagining razing them over hot coals, hearing their flesh snap, crackle and pop. Victor paused. That reminded him; he needed to pick up some cereal from the shop on his way home.
It wouldn't hurt for the lifeguard to have said something, though. I mean, when their one aim is to guard lives, you'd think they'd maybe have some thoughts about a group of teenage boys waterboarding one another, like some kind of macabre cross between Tom Brown's School Days and Guantanamo Bay. No; instead, they simply gawped into the corner of the room with that gormless look on their face, or chatted to their colleague about whatever dross they saw on telly last night. Meanwhile, the Professional Amateur's frenetic front crawl shot past Victor's sensible breaststroke, the resulting tide rocking Victor to the side and sending a fresh wave of chlorine right into his eyes and up his nostrils.
That about did it. Victor turned to the juveniles. 'Oi! You three! What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?' Their response was succinct, expressive, and something you certainly couldn't say on BBC One pre-watershed. As expected, the lifeguard barely batted an eyelid.
Reaching the end of the pool, Albert slid out like a greyhound out of a trap. 'Just going into the steam room for a bit, Vic,' he called.
Still in the middle of the pool, Victor flailed about like a greyhound stuck in cement. 'Oh, right-o.'
'Catch you in a minute.' With that, Victor realised that, for once, he had a friend he actually enjoyed spending time with. It had gotten to the point where he actually tolerated the twice-weekly swimming – no, he actually looked forward to it, because it meant he could have a nice catch-up with Albert. Alright, Victor admitted, mostly to himself. Sometimes the world isn't an endless menagerie of misery and suffering. There might be brutes like the three teenage lads, or ignorant sods like the Professional Amateur, but at least there were people Albert to make it all worthwhile.
This was exactly the moment Albert groaned, turned the exact shade of sour milk, and keeled over, crashing into the water.
'A heart attack?!' jabbered a bewildered Victor some ten minutes later, as the paramedics eased Albert onto the gurney. 'Are you sure?'
'Quite sure, Mr Meldrew,' responded one of the paramedics. 'It's either that or Parrot Fever.'
'But he's as fit as a butcher's dog!' If it were possible to reverse a cardiac arrest through sheer doggedness and denial, then Victor Meldrew would certainly be the one to achieve it. 'Only this morning, he was telling me that he was taking part in the London Marathon.'
'Yes, always the way with these exercise fanatics,' said the paramedic, adopting a slightly mournful air. 'Too much too soon, you see – most of the time, their bodies just can't take it. Like trying to do the Indy 500 in a Morris Minor. Play it safe and have a bacon sandwich, that's what I always say.'
Victor decided not to press the point any further. After all, these paramedics were currently the only thing standing between Albert and… well, not an early grave, but a grave nonetheless. Just stand back and let them do their job, Victor told himself chidingly; after all, it wouldn't be a good look for the death certificate to have to say 'Cause of death – Victor Meldrew', would it?
Now feeling slightly ridiculous in the bright red swimming trunks, Victor watched as the gurney was wheeled out into the foyer, and to the ambulance waiting outside. Everyone around him had stopped what they were doing, either out of respect or curiosity. Well, everyone aside from the Professional Amateur: unperturbed by his fellow swimmer's brush with death, he was now performing a somewhat ostentatious butterfly stroke.
Through the large glass windows, Victor saw the ambulance doors swing shut. With the excitement now over, the pool returned to its previous state of anarchy. Somehow, Victor had lost the appetite for a good swim. The paramedic's words ringing in his ears, he decided to quit while he was ahead and stop at the café on the way home for a late breakfast, with plenty of HP sauce.
It hadn't occurred to him when he was padding around the perimeter of the pool, icy water now dripping down his legs. It hadn't occurred to him as he stood beneath the tepid shower, trying in vain to scrub away the chlorine.
It was only when he returned to the locker, saw that it was locked, and checked both of his wrists three times each for the key did it sink in.
'Oh god…'
The image of Albert being loaded into the ambulance, the yellow plastic strap still on his wrist, flashing uncontrollably into Victor's mind. Then the ambulance racing away from the leisure centre, lights flashing and wailing. 'Oh… god…'
In what would turn out to be a fairly sizable blow to his self-esteem, Victor decided to force the locker open. He'd explain everything afterwards, offer to pay to cover any damage. After all, it was only balsa wood and cheap hinges – how strong could it be?
As it turns out, very bloody strong indeed.
'What – are they – keeping – in these – lockers?!' gasped a red-faced Victor, as he strained against the door. 'The Koh-I-Noor? The Ark of the Covenant? The bloody Moonstone?'
After two minutes, Victor was forced to admit defeat. There was nothing else for it. He made his way through to reception, painfully aware of the trail of water he was leaving behind him, a six-foot snail in a sartorially-questionable pair of trunks.
'Can I help you?' asked the pretty young girl on reception, putting down her mobile phone.
'I've, erm… I seem to have misplaced my key for the locker,' he explained bashfully.
'I'm sure it'll be somewhere.' The girl behind the desk smiled inanely. 'When did you last see it?'
In the back of an ambulance, strapped to a man one good sneeze away from popping it. 'I'm not quite sure. It's Locker 14, for the swimming pool – you wouldn't happen to have a spare set of keys, by any chance?'
'I'm afraid not, Mr Meldrew. I'll get one of the lifeguards to have a look, see if they can spot them. After all, there's not many places it could be!'
By now, Victor was starting to garner unwanted attention. 'You see, it's quite urgent – I need to get home, and it's got my keys, my wallet, my clothes…'
Five minutes passed before the lifeguards also declared the keys a lost cause. 'I'm sorry, Mr Meldrew, but they don't seem to be anywhere.'
'So how am I meant to get home, dressed like this?' Victor raised an eyebrow acidly. 'Find the nearest canal and swim?'
'We've got a locksmith who can get it open, but he's on holiday until Thursday,' the receptionist had explained, as Victor stared in horror at the proffered items of clothing. 'You can come back for your things then, if you like. And I'm sure we have something in lost property that'll fit you…'
Which was how Victor found himself dressed in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a lime green vest, sat on the backseat of the 32A and silently cursing every single employee of that health centre. Fancy not having some sort of contingency plan. What if a child had wondered into one of the lockers, and the door swung shut? Would they just have offered the wailing mother another child from lost property?
No. Today was definitely not a day for sanity.
Margaret's heart sank as she heard the door slam behind Victor. And it had been such a lovely morning…
'How was swimming?' she asked her husband, with the air of a surgeon asking if they at all minded that the wrong arm had been amputated.
'Don't ask,' he snapped, 'just do not ask.' He went to take off his cap and throw it onto the table – but remembering that it was currently locked in a gym changing room three miles away, made do with slamming the door again for good measure.
As he busied himself about the kitchen making lunch, he filled her in on the horrors of the morning – the teenagers, the Amateur Professional, the lifeguards who seemed to be suffering from early-onset rigor mortis. Not really paying attention to what he was doing, he seemed to have prepared a wonderful repast of sliced tomato, baked beans and oxtail soup.
'So what happened to the key?'
'Albert had it.' Victor shoved a spoonful of soup into his mouth. 'And once they took him off, that was game over, wasn't it?'
'"They"? Who's "they"?'
Victor paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. In all the excitement, he'd forgotten all about Albert being rushed off to hospital.
'The, er, the paramedics,' he explained, replacing his spoon in the bowl quietly. 'The ones who took him to hospital. He, erm… had a heart attack. They think.'
'A heart attack?' Margaret flew to her feet. 'A heart attack. Your only friend in the entire world is taken to hospital, and you sit here, blathering on about… swimming trunks!'
'I was going to mention it…'
Margaret plucked the phone from its stand and thrust it into his chest. 'Phone the hospital. Now.'
'Oh, alright…' Victor started to dial the number. 'But I'm telling you, he'll be absolutely fine. Albert's built like a tank. It'd take a bulldozer to finish him off.'
Later that afternoon, Victor found himself wandering through the labyrinthine corridors of St Luke's Hospital. Every time he came here, the place seemed to become more and more like an M. C. Escher painting – despite having only ever taken the stairs up, he seemed to have somehow ended up in the basement. To be frank, the place was starting to get on his nerves. The dull plastic floor was squeaking underfoot, and the smell of antiseptic was everywhere.
At last, he reached Albert's ward. Victor rounded the corner to find his friend, sitting up in a hospital bed and wearing the expected teal gown. Or at least, eighty-nine per cent of him was.
'Albert!'
'Oh, hello, Vic.' He proffered a crumbled paper bag. 'Fancy a Jelly Baby?'
Victor stared at the sight before him. Had Albert somehow not realised? He'd occasionally been a bit absent-minded now and then, but this was surely taking the proverbial.
'Albert. What the bloody hell has happened to your arm?!'
'Oh, that.' Albert sniffed at the bandaged stump that had this morning been a perfectly decent right arm. 'Turns out that heart attack might have been a stroke of luck, Vic. When the docs brought me in, they found sepsis in my wrist. I'd cut in on a fence doing the gardening and never thought any more about it – turns out if they hadn't found it, it would've killed me stone dead. Funny old world, innit?' He popped a grape into his mouth.
'And they just…' Victor mimed the sawing action with his own arm. '…did they?'
'Yep, just like that. I did ask for just a little off the top, but you know what these people are like once they get started.' Albert grinned. 'Still, it had a good run, didn't it? I got seventy years out of that arm, and you can't complain about that.'
'Right.' Victor felt himself sink down in the chair opposite the bed.
'Looks like my swimming career might have come to an end, though, Vic. I'd just be going around in circles. Might you, it's worked out well. You remember my old Navy nickname, don't you?'
'Bandit, wasn't it?'
'That's right.' Albert's face contorted with amusement. 'Look at me now!' he hooted. 'The One-Armed Bandit!'
Victor gave a polite smile. He was never quite sure how to act when talking to someone in hospital – were you meant to be sympathetic? Or light and airy, to take their mind off the situation? It was a painful arrangement, and one he found himself in more and more often these days.
Please God, he begged silently. Do SOMETHING to break this up. Send someone to help, and I'll go to church every Sunday, and say a prayer every night, and give up meat every Lent, and –
Margaret entered the ward, a magazine and a bar of Dairy Milk in hand. Oh, never mind, Victor concluded, Margaret's here now.
'Albert?' she asked, setting the items down the table.
'You must be Margaret,' the patient said cheerfully. 'Oh, you're much prettier than he described.'
Margaret shot Victor a look that could have melted steel. 'That's good,' she said, before returning her attention to Albert. 'I've brought you these,' she added, indicating the goods from the shop.
'Oh, ta very much.' He cast a brief look at the glossy magazine's cover story – I found out my milkman was my long-lost son! – and set it back down again. 'That's what I need right now, if I'm honest – something to stop me getting bored.'
Margaret looked at the lack of right arm. 'I'm just glad I didn't bring you that Rubik's Cube now.'
Following her gaze, Albert smirked. 'Yes. I was trimming my fingernails and got a bit carried away. So what do you do, Margaret?'
From there, the conversation took on a more casual tone. After they'd left the topic of Albert's new status as a southpaw, it became strangely pedestrian – they discussed such scintillating topics as the weather (rather bright for this time of year), Arsenal's display the night before (ludicrous), and whether the new Irn Bru tasted any different to the old one (Victor: the same, Albert: the same, Margaret: never drank it so wouldn't know).
Despite Margaret's frequent statements to the opposite, Victor was actually capable of being quite observant, when the situation called for it. For instance, during the ten or so minutes he had spent talking to Albert, he had noticed that the locker key was not currently on his wrist. A subtle examination of Albert's effects ('subtle' in the way that a parking warden could be described as 'friendly') revealed the key wasn't anywhere to be found there, either. To an outsider, this might all seem rather callous – barely moments after finding out that his friend is going to have a hard time doing the Macarena from now on, Victor has already moved onto the key, with bloodhound-like tenacity. But so was the way his mind worked. Beating around the bush wasn't going to bring Albert's arm back; at least this way, Victor could finally get his clothes back from that bloody locker.
So whilst Margaret engaged Albert in a fiery debate on the pros and cons of paying your television licence annually rather than weekly, Victor stalked away into the hospital's winding corridors. After some searching, he found the duty registrar – a tall, austere man with a neat goatee and prominent widow's peak. 'Excuse me, doctor, erm…?'
'Sheppard.'
'Doctor Sheppard. Nice to meet you. I'm Victor Meldrew, I'm a friend of Albert Somerset. I understand you are the doctor who amputated his arm this morning?
The registrar folded his arms. 'Yes, well, with that amount of sepsis, speed is always the best policy. It can spread through the body like wildfire if it's not treated quickly.'
'And the arm itself – whereabouts is it now? Only, I think it might be of some interest to me, that's all.'
'In the incinerator, most likely.'
'Oh. I see.' Victor tried to hide his disappointment.
'Unless one of the porters has been playing Frankenstein again. Were you hoping to keep it as a spare or something, Mr Meldrew? Otherwise, I can't see it being of much interest to you.'
'Well, I suppose not, no,' agreed Victor. 'Just so long as it wasn't the arm with the key strapped to it.'
And then, with the air of Margaret asking how swimming had gone, the surgeon asked if Victor minded awfully that they seemed to have amputated the wrong arm.
'He seems to be doing well,' said Margaret, as she unpacked the shopping later that day.
'Doing well?' Victor's eyes goggled. 'The man looks like he's about to murder Doctor Richard Kimble's wife.'
'No,' Margaret conceded with a sigh, 'but at least he's staying positive. That's the important thing.'
'Yes,' Victor conceded with a sigh, 'I suppose you're right. Oh, for goodness' sake!'
'What now?' Margaret turned to see Victor produce something from the recycling bin. 'What is it?'
'Another water bottle!' Raising the offending article, Victor promptly threw it back down into the bin. 'I mean, that's just proof there's one born every minute, doesn't it? Water is the most abundant thing on this planet, and people are giving money for it! Fill it at the tap for tuppence, and people will pay hand over fist.'
'I was in town, I was thirsty. That's all.' Margaret held her hands aloft. 'I thought it'd probably be better than the liquid sugar you get these days. You only have to look at one of those and wind up with a cavity.'
'But it's like paying for air!' This was clearly Victor's latest obsession. 'Or… soil, or grass. Somethings in life are meant to be free, not bottled up and commodified.'
'Are you finished?' The sullen silence told her that he was. 'I know you're worried about Albert, but please. Shut up.'
'Worried?' Victor clumsily stacked the cans of food in the cupboard. 'Who's worried? I'm not. Believe you me – Albert's going to be just fine.'
If there had been any question remaining about Albert's physical condition, then that last statement sealed his fate. For less than twenty-hour hours later, he suffered a second heart attack; and this time, despite the best efforts of everyone one hand, he came out of it rather worse than missing an arm.
At half past nine the following morning, Albert Francis Somerset was declared dead. By twenty-five to ten, his bed was being cleaned. By twenty to, it was as if he'd never existed.
'This,' said Margaret, with the boundless wisdom of the eternally long-suffering and the much put-upon, 'is sick. Absolutely, unutterably sick.'
Victor decided simply to say nothing, maintaining a respectful silence. 'Well, he was a sailor all his life, you know. I suppose he just wanted to… go back to the water, as it were.'
'No. No, I get that part,' Margaret responded, through pursed lips. 'But this…'
The sleek black coffin slid forward, easing gently into the still blue water. Then the lifeguard blew his whistle to signify the end of the two-minute silence, and the Quentin Park Health and Leisure Centre swimming pool was in business once more.
'Well, he'd been at the gym for a long time,' explained Victor, pacifyingly. 'And it's not as if he's staying there…'
That was true, Margaret mused. At least they'd cordoned off a section of the deep end for the time being, until the casket was removed and taken to a more final resting place. 'But even so, it can't be hygienic, with that… thing bobbing around in there.' Margaret shuddered. 'It's like a novelty ice cube.'
All things considered, it was good of the leisure centre to have carried out Albert's last request like this. Victor was sure that many of them wouldn't even have considered it, let alone closed the pool for an hour during the ceremony. But even so, the sight of Father Mackenzie performing the Rite of Committal whilst wearing inflatable armbands was probably a bit much.
Not long after this, Margaret made an early exit, claiming she was going to meet a friend in town. Like dogs being able to foresee thunderstorms, she had a preternatural sense for one of Victor's episodes, and she'd rather be as out the way as possible. Because as you see, Victor had more than one reason to be visiting the leisure centre that day. Well, to be more accurate, he had two separate trips to make, but Victor, ever the frugalist, opted to combine them into one.
So, as he undie the black tie and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, he approached the front desk. 'Ah, yes, hello,' he said, rapping his fingers on the smudged glass surface. 'My name is Meldrew. I believe you have something for me.'
'Oh yes, Mr Meldrew. I'll just fetch it for you now.'
After much haranguing and harassing, Victor had finally managed to convince the leisure centre staff that Locker 14 was a lost cause (what with the key currently being reduced to ash in a medical incinerator and everything), and they had ultimately acquiesced to break the locker open and retrieve his things. His only regret was that he wasn't there to see the damn thing broken down into toothpicks, but there you are.
'Here you are,' said the receptionist, as she handed over a battered cardboard box. 'Just let us know if there's anything missing.'
Victor studied the contents for a second. 'Is this some kind of joke?'
'I'm sorry?'
Inside the box was a navy blue summer dress; a patent leather handbag; a pair of practical but stylish kitten heels; and a battered copy of Fifty Shades of Grey.
'It was Locker 40 you wanted opening, wasn't it, Mr Meldrew?'
'No!' he wailed. 'Locker fourteen! Four-teen!'
'Oh, that must have been one of the other ones, then. Sorry about that.'
'I just don't – other ones?' Victor blinked. 'How many times has this happened?'
'You'd be surprised. Just two seconds, Mr Meldrew.'
Ten minutes later, they finally cracked open the right locker, and presented Victor with his belongings. The cheese and pickle sandwich Margaret had made him for his lunch would almost certainly be past its best, so that went straight in the bin. On a cursory glance, though, everything else seemed to be more or less intact, though he was convinced one of the staff had made a start on the crossword in his Daily Mirror.
'Just one more thing, Mr Meldrew.' The girl handed over an A4 sheet of paper. 'You asked for a membership form.'
Victor stared at the form. 'Oh yes,' he replied flatly. 'So I did.'
'Would you still be interested?'
'As it happens – No. I wouldn't. Not only is your swimming pool inhabited by rejects from Lord of the Flies – not only is it staffed by automatons so mindless they'd make shop mannequins look like a Professor of Law at Oxford University – and not only did it manage to give my friend a heart attack, but it also managed to take my clothes hostage, store them in a vault so secure Fort Knox is asking for the blueprints, and then when I finally convince you to give me them back, you give me the wrong bloody ones! If it was up to you lot, I'd be walking through that door looking like Mrs Doubtfire! So no. In short, I don't think I'll be continuing my patronage of your fine establishment. In future, I'll take my business elsewhere. Thank you.' And with that, Victor bundled up his belongings and thundered out of the foyer, leaving the dazed receptionist behind.
The car door gave a satisfying slam as Victor climbed inside. He sat in silence, stewing. This always happened when he lost his temper. You let the anger boil over, rant at some poor (and probably undeserving) worker, you let it all out… and then what? What exactly did he do now? He felt like Doctor Jekyll, waking up to see what carnage had been wrought by Mister Hyde. Oh well. It wasn't like he was ever going to go back to that wretched place again, anyway.
Having calmed down a little, he began to sort through the items. Oh, the stupid staff – they'd given him the wrong things again! That wasn't his overcoat, it was far too small, and since when did he wear size eight brogues? The idiots!
Victor stopped. Of course. Of course.
They were Albert's things. They'd shared a locker – these were the things Albert had brought with him.
These were the last clothes he'd ever worn – well, excepting the swimming trunks and hospital gown. This was the last newspaper he'd ever bought. There was a pink-orange Lottery ticket folded up in the wallet – knowing Albert's luck, it would've been the jackpot.
Feeling something bulky in the jacket pocket, Victor produced it: a bottle of Evian. Half-empty – well, half-full, if you were going to be like that. He turned the water bottle around, watching the contents slosh around inside, fascinated. Albert must have bought it on his way to the pool that morning, but then never finished it. He'd never finish it.
Victor was no stranger to death; at his age, you simply couldn't be. But just to have it laid bare before him like this – a life interrupted, cut off like a television in a power cut. In the blink of an eye, to go to… nothing. As Tommy Cooper would have it, just like that. Without even the chance to finish a bottle of water.
Victor stepped out of the car. Unscrewing the plastic lid, he upturned the bottle and watched the water trickle out onto the pavement, trickling down into the grate. At least that was one thing Albert could check off the list.
'Goodbye, Albert.' Victor looked vaguely skywards. 'It's your round. Bandit.'
Having allowed himself this small display of sentimentality, Victor Meldrew pulled himself together, climbed back inside his Honda, and headed for home.
