6
Manchester, 1998
I slam a red into a corner pocket. Chalk the tip of the cue. Get down and line up a shot on the black. But there’s no blocking out those screams.
I stand up. Shake my head and bend down low again, cue tip to cue ball. I draw back my arm and whack the ball with the cue.
The white comes clean off the table and smashes an empty pint glass off a bar table.
I turn and stride out of the snooker room, cue still in hand. Walking across the members’ lounge, I unscrew the end of the cue.
Steve the barman is polishing a glass. He pauses.
I stop and turn to him. “Get out."
He ditches the glass and hurries out through a staff door. I toss the thin end of the cue and continue on my way to the private rooms.
Coming up to the first door, I don’t break my stride. I fling the doo
