'C'mon where? I've had three fuckin' beers.'

'No need to get lippy with me, son.'

'I'm not getting lippy with you. I'm stating a fact. I've had three beers. I'm a member.'

Look at the bouncer's eyes. They disappear into his skull. His piss is pure boiled about something, but his voice doesn't show it. I think you've had enough,' he says again, and puts one huge hand on my shoulder.

Two ways to go with this. I can kick off and get battered, or play possum. The rising heat in my face makes me want to take this empty Becks bottle to the mountain's head. His hand on my shoulder tells me to think again. He's got power in those fingers, so God knows what the whole limb's capable of.

That's what makes me bottle it. This place is far too dangerous for someone with my disposition. Fuck knows I've tried not to panic since I got out, but times like this, the fear takes over.

Keep calm, Callum.

Smile. Be nice.

I smile, but I can't be nice. 'You want to take your hand off me, pal?'

'I think it's time you left.'

'And I think you do too much fuckin' thinking.'

'I think — '

'Watch it. Your noggin might overheat. But you know what? I think you're right.'

I neck the rest of my beer and slip out from under the bouncer's grip, head to the door. Behind me, I can hear conversation, but can't make out the words.

Yeah, I think. Who was that masked man?

Someone told me that the difference between a pub and a bar is that a bar has more mirrors to show you how fucked up you are.

I need a drink after my brush with the bouncer. Something to settle my heart rate. Somewhere to lie low and take stock. I'd head up to Oxford Road, bury myself in an old man pub vibe, but it's too much of a walk. So I scout around and find a place in Withy Grove that looks like Austin Powers' worst nightmare.

Beggars and choosers spring to mind.

Lines of purple and white swirl across the ceiling. I go down the stairs into a club that's already starting to fill up. Air-conditioned, dark red and pink. I feel like I've walked into a lung. A quick scan of the place then I walk over to the bar, hoping to get a drink down me before the music kicks in properly. At the moment, I can hear a low funk-jazz thing going on, the kind of music that makes me think I should be wearing a pimp suit and shoes with goldfish in the heels.

I pay for a bottle of Holsten Pils and try to look cool by leaning against the bar. From the glances I get, I'm not doing a great job. They know I'm not one of them and they're vaguely annoyed.

Yeah, these people, they're a completely different class. Seems to bother them more than it bothers me, though. I look around, not afraid to make eye contact.

A working-class hero is something to be. But then, six bullets, point blank, and not one of them hit Yoko. Think on.

The young and the restless, the upwardly mobile and sexually aware new professionals. Formal coats, suits and ties. Mobile phones that come with cameras, games and wireless broadband internet capabilities. Glasses that didn't come from Specsavers, more likely to have Red Or Dead on them.

I could have been this, I reckon. Minded my schoolwork, stayed clear of the wrong crowd. Remained in Leith, kept my head down, grown a fucking goatee and ended up doing data entry for enough money to get hammered on the weekend.

Yeah, right. Like there were data entry jobs in Leith. And I didn't have the brains to work in HMV.

I lied to myself about the chances I'd wasted. That's the way the song goes, even if the tune doesn't stick.

Rob Stokes took the chance. The only thing he lied to himself about was thinking he could get away with it. He's done a pretty good job so far, but it won't last. He got out of there, and the staff at the club won't talk. It comes back to me, that lifer look in their eyes. They don't talk about Stokes because it isn't true, can't be true. This phantom dealer with the balls to grab ten grand and bolt, he's a myth. Those dealers, the last thing they want to believe is that it's possible to get out of the business. And so they keep quiet and keep the cards coming.

I drain the bottle, stifle wind. Call the girl behind the bar and get her to set me up with another and, what the hell, a double Jamesons to break the gas.

A couple of blondes, one obviously more attractive than the other, are settling into a booth. Giggling, gesticulating. Career girls through and through. The attractive one has the burnt sienna skin of a sun-worshipper; her friend the Tango hue of a stand-and-tan, pale flab peeking out from under a crop top. The sad thing is, they're both out of my league.

There was a girl at school, but that was too long ago to mean anything. Some more along the line, but nothing you'd call love. Certainly nothing I'd call serious.

Sex hasn't been an issue.

They told me inside, that's all I'd want when I got out. Some lads, they became obsessed, nearly went blind with wanking. Which was a tough thing to manage, considering you didn't get a lick of privacy. But that's what they talked about, who they'd fuck their first night out. Jo Guest, Cameron Diaz, could've been Anne Widdecombe — it didn't matter who, any hole's a goal and all that. It didn't happen for me. I had other things on my mind.

Something always gets in the way.

I down the Jamesons — balls to savouring it — and finish off the burn with a swallow of beer. And Christ, I wish this place had tables. Somewhere to sit. My knees are starting to feel loose. I pull myself upright and wander about, bottle in hand.

Totally self-conscious as Bobby Womack launches into 'Across 110th Street', the volume rising, bass shaking. It's official. I'm Shaft in photo negative.

Up a flight of steps, and there's a seating area overlooking the dance floor. I take the steps two at a time, feel a creak in my knees. Halfway up, I have to take a breather. I lean against the railing and survey the dance floor.

A couple of hours, and I get my exercise going to and from the bar. My own fault — I broke the seal with that first Jamesons. When I check my watch, I have to concentrate on the numbers. Fuck. I should go home, but my legs feel like they want to stay here. Counting the drinks since this morning and it all adds up to too many.

A scally lad just walked in. He's at the bar now, counting the change in the palm of his hand. I freeze. He sticks out like a sausage in a synagogue, and paranoia tells me it's me he's after. It doesn't make sense. But then, that's the thing about paranoia. It doesn't have to. I keep an eye on him as I climb the rest of the stairs, stick to whatever shadows I can find.

The scally turns and leans against the bar, a pint in his hand. He hasn't touched it, surveying the dance floor with all the intensity of a tail. He's long-bodied, pale in the light. And he doesn't look like he's bothered about being out of place in here. He's too busy thinking about something else. His steel face gives it away. Reading his watch would give him that same concentrated look, though.

I sit on the edge of a backless couch with a cow-print pattern as the lights in the place start to move, dappled, across the dance floor.

He looks around the place, his head bobbing as someone moves into his line of sight. He doesn't think to lift his head. He sips from his pint. I'm trapped up here.

Nah, nobody's trapping this bloke. I'm a bigger man than that.

I get up, finish my beer and put the empty bottle on the table next to me. Go straight for the stairs and down onto the dance floor, keep my head down but the scally in my peripheral vision. There's only one way to get round this, I reckon. And that's to call the bugger's bluff.

The scally rolls his shoulders back when he sees me. He's definitely a tail. I turn on my heel and make straight for the bar. His face tightens. As I reach him, he moves to one side, his trainers squeaking on the floor.