Oz pulled up outside the Kings Arms, ignoring the horn of the taxi behind him. "'Ere you go, Guv'nor," he said, in mockney. "Safe and sound in the frog and toad outside the rub-a-dub-dub. I've always fancied being a cabbie, you know. It would be a novelty, a taxi driver actually qualified to talk about philosophy."

Ess released her white-knuckle grip on the dashboard. "That would certainly increase the use of public transport," she said, opening the door. She pulled the passenger seat forward and held the door open as Paul and Scarth climbed out.

Once on the pavement, Paul bent over and spoke to Oz.

"Oz, I can't thank you enough. I really appreciate it. I can't tell you how much."

Oz batted the words away. "Rubbish. I should thank you. I can't remember when I had so much fun. Oh, wait, that would have been last month with a little redhead. What was her name, now? Anyway, this has been the most fun I've had outside the bedroom." He paused, reminiscing again. "Well, the most platonic fun I've had, anyway. Thank you, young man, for affirming I haven't just wasted my life on a meaningless fantasy. Now, tomorrow afternoon, about two-ish, come round my place and we'll brainstorm your problem, once I've done a little research, okay?"

"Okay."

Paul straightened up and faced Ess.

"Thank you, too. I mean, you've been pretty wonderful, considering we've just met. And for looking after Scarth, and, well, you know ..."

"Saving your life?"

"Yeah, all that sort of thing," said Paul.

"So, what are you up to now?"

Paul shrugged. "Nothing much. Have a bite to eat and an early night, I guess."

"Okay," said Ess, nodding. There was an awkward pause.

"Oh for crying out loud," boomed Oz, leaning across the passenger seat. "He's too shy to ask you out, Ess. Just tell him you'll meet him here about eight and get back in the car. Life is too short to spend it watching the two of you pussy-footing around each other. You can tell he's gagging for it."

Ess slammed the passenger door shut.

"If he doesn't kill himself on the road, I shall quite happily do it for him," said Ess, blushing.

"Look, you don't have to. I mean, yes, I'd love to, but don't, you know, put yourself out, not if you don't want to, unless you do. Want to, that is." In the great romantic speeches of all time, Paul realised that would never make the shortlist.

"No," said Ess, far too quickly. "I mean, yes, I want to. That would be great. Besides," she said, bending down and patting Scarth on the head, "I promised this little fellow an ice-cream for being such a clever little demon and finding his master. Yes I did, didn't I?"

"Ice-cream?" said Scarth hopefully.

"Yes, later. When I get back," said Ess, straightening.

"So, later then," said Paul.

"Yes, later."

They stood there for a moment or two, then Ess leant forward awkwardly. There was the clumsy dance of the noses that couples always do just prior to a first kiss, where each is panicking about which side to go, and whether to kiss just one or both cheeks. And then Ess was stepping into the car, pulling her skirt across and reaching for her seatbelt.

"Told you he was gagging for it," said Oz.

"I'm not," retorted Paul.

Ess paused, her hand resting on the door handle. "You're not? That's not a very complimentary thing to say to a woman, Paul, is it?"

The mini lurched forward, and as the momentum slammed the door shut, Paul heard her peals of laughter.

He stood at the kerb, looking at the retreating car weaving between traffic. He suddenly felt drained. He could scarcely believe how much he had done in the space of one day, and it was only - Paul looked at his watch - six o'clock. Six o'clock! When did she say she would be here? Eight?

"Come on," Paul said to Scarth. "Let's move. I've got a date to get ready for."

Even at this time of day the pub was still quite busy. Paul started across the bar, heading for the stairs.

"Streak!"

Dumpster sat at the counter.

"Streak, come over here," he called, waving Paul over. "Nosher, this is the kid I told you about." Nosher, a squat man with a shaven head and a nose that zigzagged down his face, gave Paul a dismissive look.

"Him?" he said.

"Yeah, would you credit it? A long streak of piss you'd think you could knock down with sneeze, and he beat me at arm wrestling, then decked me with one punch. Bleedin' embarrassin', ain't it. How'd you do it, Streak? Jim says it was some kung fu shit. That right?"

Paul gave a short nod. "Something like that, Dumpster."

"Bloody hell. What you like when you're drunk, then?"

"Ill, Dumpster. Sick as a dog."

Dumpster laughed. "Ha! That's 'cos you're just a kid. Stick around, son, and we'll teach you to drink like a man."

Jim leaned over from the other side of the counter. "Here, Dumpster. Streak was telling me he's a bit tasty with the arrows, too."

"You are?"

"I am?" said Paul.

"Yeah," said Jim. "You know, darts."

"Oh, right, I am, yes. Well, not that good, but I can chuck a dart okay."

"You should give him a game, Dumpster. See if you can win your money back." Jim looked meaningfully at Paul.

"Oh, right, yeah, that would be great," said Paul. "Only, I've had a pig of a day. I need to change and stuff. And I'm going out at eight, so it can only be a short game. But I'll be back down in spell, all right?"

"No worries, Streak. I expect I can fit you into my social calendar." The others laughed at Dumpsters sparkling repartee. "You sort yourself out, Son. I'll be here."

Paul and Scarth went upstairs. Paul left Scarth in his room on his best behaviour. Scarth objected, worried, perhaps, by his enforced absence earlier, but Paul was not prepared to bathe in front of the demon. Eventually, Radio Two turned up full volume on his earphones, Paul persuaded Scarth to stay in the bedroom while Paul sought out the bathroom.

Bathed and feeling somewhat more human, Paul returned and dug through his few, still wrapped, clothes. He settled on a plain T-shirt. He didn't have a change of trousers, but he sniffed his jeans experimentally, and decided they would pass muster. They appeared clear of vomit, ectoplasm and other contaminants.

He looked at his watch. Nearly seven. Time enough, he guessed. How long did a game of darts take? Did they have peculiar rules down here in London? He checked his cash. Just over a hundred pounds. Minus the fifty he would have to lose to Dumpster at the darts. Would that give him enough for dinner for two? Definitely if they went to Burger King. Definitely not if they ate at the Ritz. The trick was going to be finding a happy medium.

He took Scarth by the shoulders and looked solemnly at him. Scarth returned his look with a vacant stare.

"Scarth, we're going downstairs, and then later we're going out with Ess, okay?"

"Ess downstairs," said Scarth. "Ice-cream?"

"No. Well, yes, later, if you're good. Now do you remember the rules about Ess?"

"Let Ess see Scarth. Not hurt Ess."

"Good. In fact, I don't want you hurting anyone, okay? No eating anyone, no hurting anyone. I just want you to be good."

"Scarth good. Ice-cream?"

"No, I told you, later." Suddenly, Paul could only see disaster in the evening ahead. How could any sort of date be successful with Scarth sitting between them like the little brother from hell? He wished now he had her phone number, so he could cancel the date, but it was too late for that.

"Oh, let's just get this over with," he said, and opened the bedroom door.

In the bar, Dumpster was already standing at the oche, throwing what looked like custom darts at the board. Paul gave a little nod of encouragement and sought out Jim at the counter.

"Jim, can I ask your advice?"

Jim shrugged.

"Is there anywhere around here that's nice to eat, but not too, erm, fancy?"

"Cheap and cheerful, eh?" Jim looked at Paul's T-shirt, still creased from the packaging. "Brick Lane would be favourite. You can get a ruby for ten, fifteen quid a head. Don't drink the wine, though. They rip you off on the booze."

"Ruby?"

"Ruby Murray, curry. Jeez, you're going to have to learn to talk proper, if you want to stay around here much longer. What you drinking? Lager?"

"What? Oh, yes, I guess. Just a half, though."

Jim froze for a second, giving Paul a cold stare. Then he took a pint glass from the shelf.

"Half pints are for girls. I don't serve half pints to men in this pub, 'less they're queer. You gay, Streak? 'Cos you look like you're meeting a bird, is all."

"Fine, a pint then," said Paul. After all, he could nurse that for an hour until Ess arrived.

"Are you getting Dumpster one." The way Jim framed it, it wasn't a question.

Paul took the glasses over to a table by the darts oche.

"You want a practice?" asked Dumpster.

"No, I'm good." Let's just get this farce over with.

"Where's your arrows?"

"Oh, I don't have any. Erm, not on me, anyhow."

"Guess you'll have to play with the pub ones then," said Dumpster, grinning. Paul looked at the thick brass darts with the bent plastic flights. It looked as though a dog had chewed one of them at some point. At least, he hoped it was a dog. He compared them to Dumpster's tungsten darts with immaculate flights. He wouldn't have to try too hard to lose.

"Want to make a game of it, Dumpster? Fifty quid?"

Dumpster winced. "Bit steep, mate. Make it a score and five."

"Twenty-five? Okay then." That would mean he would have to offer double or quits after the first game. That would be okay. He still had plenty of time.

Fifteen minutes later he watched Dumpster's dart thud into the double ten.

"Well, that'll teach me to boast," said Paul, with what he hoped sounded like sincerity. "Another game?"

"Hold your horses, Sunshine," said Dumpster. "It's best of three. Always is, darts. You ain't lost yet."

Best of three, then a rematch. That would be at least four games. Paul checked his watch again. No, he could do this. Anyway, women were always late for dates. It was a natural law, or something.

Ess arrived midway through the fourth game. Paul picked up a blunt dart that had bounced out of the board onto the mat, and there she was, standing in the middle of the bar grinning at him, Scarth by her side. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but a few errant strands still sprung at impossible angles around her face. She had changed into a simple cotton frock and her sandals had been replaced by high heels. She stood straight as a lamppost, holding her ever-present cotton bag in both hands before her. Paul thought he had never seen anyone look as radiant, even given the surrounding.

The surroundings seemed to think so too. The volume of conversation had dropped, and quite a few of the clientele were staring. Paul looked around. It suddenly occurred to him that Ess was the only female on the public side of the counter. He cursed himself. He should have met her outside.

"Sorry, Dumpster, but I have to go now. I guess I'll have to concede."

Dumpster looked to and fro between Paul and Ess, then shook his head.

"No, you don't do that. This is a money game. You start it, you got to finish it."

"No, you carry on, Paul," said Ess. "Finish your game, I'm fine. I'll just watch."

Dumpster nodded, the matter settled. "Anyway, won't take long. Your boyfriend is crap at arrows."

It was true. Not that Dumpster was spectacularly good, but Paul had hardly ever played before, and the pub darts were blunt and bulky.

When Paul came back from the board after his next throw Ess was standing by oche with a pint glass in each hand. "Jim says you're drinking lager, and Mr Dumpster is on mild. Is that right?"

"You are a little angel," said Dumpster, taking his pint.

"Oh, right, you should have said," said Paul, blushing. "I mean, I didn't think. I mean, I thought we were going to move on. Sorry. Here, let me pay for them."

Ess laughed. "Oh, that's all right. Besides, I've already paid. You carry on."

Dumpster took a long draught and raised his eyebrows appreciatively at Paul. "A bird that buys the first round?" he said, as Ess made her way back to her seat at the bar. "She's a keeper, mate." He probably meant it as a confidential aside, but men like Dumpster didn't do quiet and subtle, and Ess was grinning again as she sat and watched Paul colour yet again.

The match over and honour satisfied, the two men returned to the bar.

"Winner buys the beer," said Dumpster. "And whatever the little lady is drinking, too, Jim."

"No, that's fine, I've still got most of my other pint to drink yet, and we're going out for a meal," said Paul.

"Then you'll have to learn to drink faster then, won't you. You don't turn down a mate's offer of a pint. Ain't you got no manners?"

"Shame on you, 'Streak'," said Ess, enjoying the show. "Besides, I'm having such an interesting chat with Jim here. He's certainly telling me about a side of 'Streak' I never knew."

She pronounced the nickname in such a way Paul could hear the inverted commas around it.

Jim, too, was enjoying the show. "I just want you to know, Streak, we run a respectable place here. No women in the rooms. Strict rule of the house."

"Oh well," said Ess, sighing with disappointment. "I guess we'll just have to do it here in the bar, then."

Paul choked on his beer.

"You bloody can't!" said Jim. "We ain't got an entertainment licence."

Dumpster and his cronies guffawed, Ess bit her lip, trying to suppress her giggles, and Paul turned from crimson to beetroot.

"Here, I hope you don't take offence," said Jim, leaning across the bar and talking to Ess in a low voice. "Only, women, they tend to drink in the saloon bar, rather than out here in the public bar. It's got a carpet," he added, as though that was an experience not to be missed.

"No offence taken at all, Jim," said Ess. "I don't mind a joke at all."

"No, what I mean to say is, women don't drink out here, not in the public bar. They drink in the saloon bar."

"Are you telling me, Jim, in this day and age, women are not allowed in the public bar?" There was an edge to her voice that Jim could not avoid noticing.

"No, no, no. Not at all. It's just the language, well, it gets a bit salty, sort of thing."

"Oh, that's okay. I've heard salty language. I even use a bit of salt myself, sometimes."

Jim squirmed. "No, you're still not getting my drift. People, the guys anyway, well, they come here so they can have a bit of fun away from the missus and the kids. They want to let their hair down and have a bit of a dirty joke and swear, without the missus having a go and the kids picking it up. Having a woman in here, well, it sort of puts them on their guard, sort of thing."

Ess stared at Jim for a few seconds, then slowly nodded.

"So what you're saying, if I understand you, is that out of consideration for your regular clientele, it would be preferable for everyone if I drank in the saloon bar?"

"That's exactly what I was trying to say," agreed Jim.

"But you are not in any way or form barring me from the public bar."

"Absolutely not," said Jim, as though the very idea was an affront.

"In that case, on the clear understanding that it is my own free choice, which I may rescind at any moment without prior notice, I think that Paul and I will retire to the saloon bar. Do you mind, Mr Dumpster?"

"No, you get stuck in. You two lovebirds don't want to court in front of an audience, do you?"

"Oh, absolutely not. Public courting is so embarrassing. Don't you agree, Streak?" With that she picked up her glass and looped her other arm through Paul's.

As they moved towards the door marked 'saloon' Dumpster said in a voice that easily carried to the departing couple, "'Ere. I thought you said he was tasty with the arrows. He was total crap. It was almost embarrassing to take his money."