There was a smattering of applause that grew in intensity, triggering more applause and then more, and then, suddenly, it had become a wave as the audience — almost all of them — rose to their feet and anointed the Governor with an ovation. The moderator struggled to make her voice heard as she asked the others for their views.

It went on for another hour in the same vein: Robinson picked his spots and was rewarded volubly every time he finished speaking. Eventually, the moderator brought the debate to an end. They all dashed to the spin room, another wide space that had been equipped with folding tables with trailing multi-plugs for laptops and cellphones. Crawford and the rest of his team split up and worked the room, button-holing the hacks from the nationals and talking up the points that Robinson had made that had gone down well, quietly de-emphasising the points that hadn’t found their marks. There was no need to spin things.

Crawford remembered the old political adage: losers spin, winners grin.

And they were winners.

21

Milton turned the key. The ignition fired but the engine didn’t start. He paused, cranked it again, but still there was nothing. He had serviced the car himself a month ago and it had all looked alright, but this didn’t sound good. He drummed his fingers against the wheel.

Eva paused at the door of her Porsche and looked over quizzically.

He put his fingers to the key and twisted it a final time. The ignition coughed, then spluttered, then choked off to a pitiful whine. The courtesy light dimmed as the battery drained from turning over the engine. He popped the hood, opened the door and went around to take a look.

“Not good?” Eva said, coming over as he bent over the engine.

“Plugs, I think. They need changing.”

Eva had insisted they come back to Top Notch. Julius had never let him down and the meal had been predictably good. The unease that Milton had felt after reading the Promises had quickly been forgotten in her company. He almost forgot the interview with the police. They had talked about the others at the meeting, slandering Smulders in particular; they agreed that he was well meaning, if a little supercilious, and she had suggested that he had form for coming onto the new, vulnerable, male members of the fellowship. She had cocked an eyebrow at him as she had said it. Milton couldn’t help but laugh at the suggestion. His troubles were quickly subsumed beneath the barrage of her wit as she took apart the other members of the group. The gossip wasn’t cruel but, nevertheless, he had wondered what she might say about him in private. He said that to her, feigning concern, and she had put a finger to her lips and winked with unmistakeable salaciousness. By the end of the main course Milton knew that he was attracted to her, and he knew that the feeling was mutual.

She watched now as he let the hood drop back into place.

“What are you going to do?”

“Walk, I guess.”

“Where’s your place?”

“Mission District.”

“That’s miles.”

That much was true. He wouldn’t be home much before midnight and then he would have to come back out in the morning — via a garage — to change the plugs. He was a little concerned about his finances, too. He had been planning to go out and drive tonight. He needed the cash. That obviously wasn’t going to happen.

“Come on — I’ll give you a ride.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“You’re not walking,” she said with a determined conviction.

Milton was going to demur but he thought of the time, and the chance to get some sleep to prime him for the day tomorrow, and he realised that would have been foolish. “Thanks,” he conceded as he locked the Explorer and walked over to her Cayenne with her.

The car was new, and smelt it. It wasn’t much of a guess to say that her job paid well — her wardrobe was as good a giveaway as anything — but as he settled back in the leather bucket seat he thought that perhaps he had underestimated how well off she really was.

She must have noticed his appraising look as he took in the cabin. “I’ve got a thing for nice cars,” she said, a little apologetically.

“It’s better than nice.”

“Nice cars and nice clothes. It used to be Cristal and coke. The way I see it, if you’re going to have an addiction it better be one that leaves you with something to show for it.”

She put on the new Jay-Z as she drove him across town. Milton guided her into the Mission District, picking the quickest way to his apartment. The area was in poor condition; plenty of the buildings were boarded up, others blackened from fire or degraded by squatters with no interest in maintaining them. The cheap rents attracted artists and students and there was a bohemian atmosphere that was, in its own way, quite attractive. It felt even cheaper than usual tonight and, as he looked out of the window of the gleaming black Porsche, he felt inadequate. They shared a weakness for booze but that was it; he started to worry that there was a distance between the way they lived their lives that would be difficult to bridge.

The El Capitan Hotel and Hostel was at 2361 Mission Street. It was a three storey building with eighty rooms. The frontage was decorated with an ornate pediment and a cinema style awning that advertised OPEN 24 HOURS A DAY and PUBLIC PARKING — OPEN 24 HOURS. It was a dowdy street, full of tatty shops and restaurants: to the left of the hotel was the Arabian Nights restaurant and, to the right, Modern Hair Cuts. Queen’s Shoes and Siegel’s Fashion for Men and Boys were opposite. There were tall palm trees and the overhead electricity lines buzzed and fizzed in the fog.

“This is me,” Milton said.

She pulled up outside the building.

She killed the engine. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That was fun.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“So — um…?” she said.

He looked at her with an uncertainty that he knew was ridiculous.

“You gonna invite me up?”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

She smiled. “What do you mean? Two recovering addicts? What could possibly go wrong?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Really?”

“Maybe it was.”

“So?”

He paused, couldn’t find the words, couldn’t even think what he could have been thinking when he said it, and laughed at the futility of it. “Come on, then. It’s at the top of the building so you’re going to have to walk. And I’ll warn you now, save the view, it’s nothing to write home about. It’s not five star.”

“Not what I’m used to, you mean?” She grinned. “Fuck you too.”

She locked the Cayenne and followed him to the door of the building. The narrow heels of her shoes clacked against the pavement as she took his arm and held it tightly. He was aware of the powerful scent of her perfume and the occasional pressure of her breast against his arm. He opened up and accepted her hand as she pressed it into his.

The reception was incredibly bright; the fluorescent tubes did not flicker, shining down with unflattering constancy onto the occupants roaming the stairs and hallways, occasionally stopping by the front desk with its glass partition and signs apologizing for the inability to lend money and forbidding the use of hot plates in the rooms. The night manager, Ahmed, nodded at them from behind the glass enclosure. There were all manner of people here. For some, it was a permanent residence and, for others, a room for the night. Many of the residents had mental problems and Milton had seen plenty of disturbances in the time he had been there. No-one had ever bothered him — the cold lifelessness behind his eyes was warning enough — and the place had served him well.

They climbed the stairs together and he gently disengaged as he reached into his pocket for the key to his door. A short, unkempt man with stringy gray hair and an oversized brown jacket peered around a potted plant at them. He stared at them, vigorously rubbing his eyes, and, after Milton returned the stare with interest, he darted back around the corner again.