Three teenage girls wait outside the vape shop for a sap to buy them a watermelon flavoured ecigarette, and spot the clown. The tall one with the nose ring is the boldest.

“Mate, could you go inside for us?”

The clown looks at the girls, then at the shop, then back at them.

“No.”

“Fuck lot of use you are.”

“Maybe,” he says, flips onto his hands and continues walking. The pretty redhead in the middle with brown eyes and freckles calls him a cunt with the others, but her heart swims slightly as he passes, and she wishes the other two weren’t there to spoil it. The clown drops back to his feet, continues past the fashion store next door and pulls open the door of a phone box. The stench of urine gusts at him and he peers at the patchwork of small cards blu-tacked to the wall above the phone. A curvaceous brunette called Kitty can offer him a massage. A stranger. He slots some coins into the machine and waits. A dial tone. He taps some numbers. A slurred voice that might be trying to be sultry answers. He hangs up and calls a number for Patti, a pneumatic blonde, her improbable statistics printed next to her phone number. He hopes she’s lying, that she’s forty and a little overweight. She answers. A smoker. He asks if she’d like to come to a party. Patti loves parties. She can be there in a couple of hours. She may, she may not. He doesn’t really care either way, but one last tango might be nice.