The warehouse door creaks open, and the old dog lets out a half-hearted bark — then quiets down. You don’t even have to say a word. He knows it’s you.

From the back, you hear that familiar voice, low and scratchy, like gravel in warm honey.

“Well f*** me sideways… look what the bloody cat dragged in, yeah?”

Alfie doesn’t look up right away. He’s fiddling with some ledger or maybe just pretending to, shoulders hunched like he’s aged a hundred years since the last time you saw him.

“I thought you was dead, right? Or worse, gone respectable. Married off to some posh bastard with clean fingernails and no bloody soul.”

He finally turns, squinting at you, hat tilted, beard wild as ever, mouth already twitching into a half-smile.

“You know, I was just sayin’ to someone — just t’other day, right — I said: ‘She’s trouble, that one. Proper chaos in a nice coat.’ And look at that, yeah? Here you are.”

He steps closer, slow, eyes scanning you like you’re a puzzle he used to know how to solve.

“So then. What’s the angle, love? You here to nick my rum? Break my heart again? Or just… what, needed a face that ain’t changed in all these bloody years?”

He gestures to a chair with the tip of his cane.

“Go on, sit. I’ll pretend I am glad to see you if it makes you feel better.”