at all. You know how it is when you meet up with an old lover; the air between you is swimming with things you cannot name and the words you speak, however banal they may at first seem, are always loaded with an additional emotional weight, a resonance that even casual onlookers are able to observe.
  Since our initial exchange, I could sense that Ellen was deliberately keeping the conversation away from my ability and the way I made my money. She had never been able to fully comprehend the extent of what I could do, and even though she had been instrumental in my acceptance of my own unique view of the world, I still did not know if she fully believed what I was capable of.
  Despite her intimate knowledge, Ellen barely knew anything at all.
  "How about you take me to that Italian place you mentioned? I could murder a nice big bowl of pasta." She stood, picking up her handbag from the table.
  "I'm sure that's not a term they use in the States. You can take the girl out of Yorkshireâ¦"
"Oh, shut up, you twat," she said, sticking out her tongue.
  When we left the hotel the women from the circular sofa were still there, but one of them was leading a fat man in an expensive suit towards the stairs. The man's hand strayed to her buttocks, his fingers splayed across the tight material of her short skirt. I wondered, briefly, if the women knew Baz Singh.
  We crossed the road at the lights and I led her down a side street. Bins overflowed with fast food waste, a small black cat hissed at us from a high concrete step before a closed metal door, and something skittered in the shadows of a recessed parking space cordoned off by a stout padlocked chain.
  "Lovely Leeds," said Ellen, leaning into me as we stepped onto the main street.
  "Nothing like California, eh? With all those gangland driveby shootings, plastic TV stars and steroid-chomping muscle men in tight little DayGlo shorts."
  A group of young men crossed the road and lurched into our path, jostling me as we brushed shoulders with them. They laughed as I stumbled off the kerb, and one of them stared at me as if he wanted to hit me. I smelled booze in the air and broke eye contact. The dead I can deal with, but as far as the living are concerned I have never been what anyone might call a tough guy.
  "Assholes," muttered Ellen, tightening her grip on my arm.
  The restaurant was called La Tosca , and was situated in the basement of an old building that had once been some kind of financial institution but now served as business units for small companies and one-man-band financial advisors. We ducked beneath the awning, glancing up at a sky that threatened rain but didn't quite seem up to the challenge, and entered the darkened space.
  The place was only half full, which meant that we got to choose a seat in the window â which, being a basement window gave us only a view of the stubby retaining wall and some fancy cast iron railings. Still, it was a nice place, and the food was never less than excellent. I ordered a nice bottle of red wine and we sipped it as we perused the menu, our attentive waiter standing quietly off to one side.
  "What are you having?" Ellen glanced at me over the top of her menu, her blue eyes darkening a shade in the dim, cramped room.
  "Are we having starters?"
  She nodded, her smile hidden by the cardboard rectangle upon which was painted a bunch of grapes and a wine bottle. "I'm starving. Missed lunch because I had a meeting."
  I glanced at her. "Anything important?" Her dark eyes darkened further still, and I wished that I'd kept my mouth shut.
  "I'll tell you later. I don't want to spoil the food." She ducked her head behind the menu and I ran my eyes across the lines of Italian recipes, my hunger abating.
  I had a bruschetta starter followed by a simple peasant's pasta dish of tagliatelle, vine tomatoes
  Since our initial exchange, I could sense that Ellen was deliberately keeping the conversation away from my ability and the way I made my money. She had never been able to fully comprehend the extent of what I could do, and even though she had been instrumental in my acceptance of my own unique view of the world, I still did not know if she fully believed what I was capable of.
  Despite her intimate knowledge, Ellen barely knew anything at all.
  "How about you take me to that Italian place you mentioned? I could murder a nice big bowl of pasta." She stood, picking up her handbag from the table.
  "I'm sure that's not a term they use in the States. You can take the girl out of Yorkshireâ¦"
"Oh, shut up, you twat," she said, sticking out her tongue.
  When we left the hotel the women from the circular sofa were still there, but one of them was leading a fat man in an expensive suit towards the stairs. The man's hand strayed to her buttocks, his fingers splayed across the tight material of her short skirt. I wondered, briefly, if the women knew Baz Singh.
  We crossed the road at the lights and I led her down a side street. Bins overflowed with fast food waste, a small black cat hissed at us from a high concrete step before a closed metal door, and something skittered in the shadows of a recessed parking space cordoned off by a stout padlocked chain.
  "Lovely Leeds," said Ellen, leaning into me as we stepped onto the main street.
  "Nothing like California, eh? With all those gangland driveby shootings, plastic TV stars and steroid-chomping muscle men in tight little DayGlo shorts."
  A group of young men crossed the road and lurched into our path, jostling me as we brushed shoulders with them. They laughed as I stumbled off the kerb, and one of them stared at me as if he wanted to hit me. I smelled booze in the air and broke eye contact. The dead I can deal with, but as far as the living are concerned I have never been what anyone might call a tough guy.
  "Assholes," muttered Ellen, tightening her grip on my arm.
  The restaurant was called La Tosca , and was situated in the basement of an old building that had once been some kind of financial institution but now served as business units for small companies and one-man-band financial advisors. We ducked beneath the awning, glancing up at a sky that threatened rain but didn't quite seem up to the challenge, and entered the darkened space.
  The place was only half full, which meant that we got to choose a seat in the window â which, being a basement window gave us only a view of the stubby retaining wall and some fancy cast iron railings. Still, it was a nice place, and the food was never less than excellent. I ordered a nice bottle of red wine and we sipped it as we perused the menu, our attentive waiter standing quietly off to one side.
  "What are you having?" Ellen glanced at me over the top of her menu, her blue eyes darkening a shade in the dim, cramped room.
  "Are we having starters?"
  She nodded, her smile hidden by the cardboard rectangle upon which was painted a bunch of grapes and a wine bottle. "I'm starving. Missed lunch because I had a meeting."
  I glanced at her. "Anything important?" Her dark eyes darkened further still, and I wished that I'd kept my mouth shut.
  "I'll tell you later. I don't want to spoil the food." She ducked her head behind the menu and I ran my eyes across the lines of Italian recipes, my hunger abating.
  I had a bruschetta starter followed by a simple peasant's pasta dish of tagliatelle, vine tomatoes
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