"You're late, Harry," she said, her voice a soft contrast to the abrasive roar of the pub.

"Traffic," Harry lied. He had actually spent twenty minutes standing on the street corner, debating whether to buy a bottle of Jim Beam or a plane ticket back to Oslo.

Harry sat at the far end of the bar, his long legs cramped under the stool. He was a tall, jagged silhouette against the mirror, his eyes scanning the room with the restless precision of a man who looked for trouble because he didn’t know how to look for anything else. In front of him sat a glass of tomato juice, an ascetic’s penance in a cathedral of vice.

"Another one, mate?" the bartender asked, wiping a glass with a rag that hadn't seen soap in a week. Harry shook his head. "I'm meeting someone."