The joking policeman was standing at the bar looking as much like an off-duty polis as was possible without swinging a truncheon. He was dressed in stay-press slacks and a smart V-neck sweater over a shirt. The barman brought him a long clear drink with lemon and ice in it and he sipped it, smiling faintly at the stage area of the room.

Paddy considered bolting back into the ladies’ and staying there until he went away. But Dub would come looking for her. Worse, the policeman might ask for her and then everyone would know he was there to see her. She took a deep breath and walked over.

“All right there?”

“Hi,” he said, smiling a crocodile grin. “Hi. You look nice.”

She noticed with horror that he had taken off his wedding ring.

“Did you catch any of the acts there?”

“No.” As he looked her up and down his smile slipped to the side of his face and nestled there. “Can’t say I did.”

“They weren’t very good.”

It was halftime and members of the audience gathered around them, pressing for the bar, repeating Paddy’s assessment about the quality of the acts. She looked over and saw Dub skulking in the doorway to the keg cellar, an area jokingly referred to as backstage.

Below the level of the bar, in the dark at pelvis height, the policeman’s hand found Paddy’s. He took hold of her fingers, pressing meaningfully. Shocked, Paddy yanked her hand away and muttered “No!” in a manner that conveyed her disgust so fluently there could be no going back or dressing it up.

He turned on her. “You fucking invited me here,” he said, and loomed over her.

Paddy grabbed his sleeve and pulled him out of the crowd. She led him over to the audience seats. A couple of them were still occupied, people keeping the places or watching their friend’s belongings, staring at the empty stage, taking in the ripped curtain and the broken chair half-hidden behind it.

She sat him down. “I invited you here because you’re funny, not because I fancy ye. I don’t. It was the middle of the night and I got confused and grabbed your hand by mistake. You’re very funny. You should know that this comedy club is here. Because you’re funny.”

It was like a rejection wrapped in a compliment. He looked at the blank stage and the punters watching it, looked at Paddy again. It seemed to Paddy that he remembered he didn’t really fancy her anyway. He decided to let it go. He nodded. “I am funny.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“And what’re you after? You want to manage me or something?”

“I don’t want anything from you. I don’t even want to be friends with you, but I come here every week and watch six unfunny comics for every good one. I thought you’d like to know about it.”

Dub appeared at Paddy’s side, staring at the policeman, who stood up and held his hand out.

“Right, pal? Are you one of the comics?”

“Yeah.” Dub shook his hand firmly once and let go. “I compere here. Dub MacKenzie.”

“I’m George Burns.”

Dub reeled as if he’d been slapped on the back of the head. He shook his head at Burns. “No, pal,” he said, “what you are is comedy fucking gold.”

The audience had gone home. The comics and bartenders were all sitting at a corner table in the empty cellar, sipping their staff drink. For the open-mike attempters it was the only kind of payment they’d get for their efforts, one shitty drink, a pint of the cheapest lager or a sweet wine. Paddy thought they were being overpaid.

Lorraine was two giggles and a hair flick away from offering herself there and then to George Burns. Paddy watched him, noting that he was pleased at the girl’s attentions but also somehow detached, observing Lorraine ’s behavior and thinking about it.

Lorraine listened to his stories along with the rest of the table, laughing extra hard at the punch lines, sitting forward to fill his line of vision, touching her hair, her décolletage, her lips, drawing his eye to them. Burns held the table rapt. He had never done a gig, yet almost every comic at the table was listening to him talk. Usually, Paddy had noticed, when one of them told a joke another comedian would tell a better one, or interrupt to rewrite the punch line, but they were all deferring to Burns, laughing at his stories and enjoying him. It wasn’t because of his age, either; it was because he was a great storyteller and the police was the perfect place to pick up material. Even Dub listened, smiling at the table and nodding occasionally, mentally charting the technicalities of what Burns was doing instinctively.

Paddy downed the last of a flat Coke she had bought an hour ago, pulled her scarf on, and stood up, announcing that she would need to leave now for the last train. Normally Dub walked her to the station, but before he had the chance to reach for his coat Burns shot to his feet, knocking Lorraine over a little.

“I’ll run you home.”

“No,” she said, “no, I’ve got a Transcard anyway. It’s not costing me.”

“I need to talk to you about the guy you mentioned the other day.” He glanced at the adoring clowns around the table and decided to risk the indiscretion. “Lafferty.”

Dub dropped his hand to his lap and conceded to him. He could only offer to walk her to the station. He didn’t have a car.

“Oh,” she said, “okay.”

Burns looked at everyone. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Brilliant,” said Muggo the Magnificent.

Burns and Paddy gathered their things and said their good-byes. She felt proud being escorted out by him. She didn’t like him or want to spend time with him but she loved the idea of Lorraine and the others watching them leave together. Lorraine looked crestfallen that he was leaving with someone else. Even Dub, who had just been usurped as their leader, raised his hand in salute: “See ye, Paddy.”

Paddy led the way upstairs, aware that Burns’s eyes were watching her fat arse. She found herself putting an extra bit of swing in her walk, swaggering almost, not ashamed of her body the way she usually was when she felt observed.

Upstairs in the pub the staff were cleaning up, washing ashtrays and loading dirty glasses onto the bar. One guy dragged a trash bag after him, gathering rubbish from the tables. No one acknowledged Paddy and Burns as they walked to the far doors and let themselves out into the frosted street.

Burns rolled his shoulders back proudly when he reached his car, a Triumph TR7 sports car, beige with black trim, the roof sloped backward as if bent by the incredibly high speeds the car routinely reached. Through the window she could see bucket seats upholstered in black leather, designed to curl around the body, with matching lush headrests and a leather-coated steering wheel. She was impressed but determined not to comment on it.

“I stay in Eastfield, know it?”

“Yeah.” He looked a bit surprised. “Had you down as a Pollockshaws girl, to be honest. Somewhere a bit nicer.”

“Eastfield is nice, it’s just fallen on hard times.”

He unlocked the passenger door for her, giving her a frank look that lingered too long to be innocent. He skirted around the bonnet for the driver’s door as Paddy climbed into the low seat. The interior of the car was immaculately clean; she could imagine Burns lovingly oiling the leather on his days off.

He opened his own door and dropped in next to her, smiling to himself, anticipating his return to the comedy club next week. “You watch a lot of comedy, tell me this: what goes down better, characters or observational stuff?”

She thought about it. “Well,” she said, “character does well initially but observational has a longer life. You can keep the same act for years with observational but it’s easier to make a breakthrough with a novelty character.”