Bic cradled the remains of a pint and wiped his fingers across one of the tiny-paned pub windows to clear it and peer out into the empty street. “Fog always puts me in a bad mood,” he mumbled to no-one in particular.

James dumped another round, their third, on the unsteady table. “Really? You’re inability to know when to shut the fuck up tends to rank higher in the irritation stakes for me.”

“Litter,” Jack mumbled from the other side of the table. “And Nazis.”

James pinged Jack’s ear. He was well-practiced in the art of irritating every one of his three friends gathered round the table. They’d known one another since nursery. “Well, of course Nazis. Nazis are a fucking given!”

Jack shrugged his big shoulders. Just once and slowly, but he was so big it looked like an impressive mountain range rippling through a heat haze.