Clive Duffy cleared away the empty glasses and mopped the bar. It was almost closing time. Soon he’d be popping down to Lime Street and meeting the lads for a pint or two. They’d have a game of darts, a few laughs. Then it’d be home to Milly for the usual kippers-on-toast, slippers-before-the-telly Sunday night. Clive gave the last-round bell a resounding ring. “Time, gentlemen,” he called. Force of habit; with the Liverpool University students on holiday, the pub was nearly empty. Today’s clientele consisted of a Kirkby whore, a trio of Woolton aunties, and a middle-aged geezer dawdling in the loo. “Time,” he said, more loudly. A wintry gust rattled the leaded windows, blew in through the cracks. Frozen rain spattered against the glass. Clive sighed. It’d be a good job hustling this lot outside by four, and there …
