Paul Simon cries whenever he sees America on the tv. Not that Paul Simon.

Colin holds his mottled hand a few inches above his bald blotchy head and moves it back and forth over a phantom mohican.

Mikey wants to tell Sarah a story about his old pal Physco but he can’t get her attention this time of the morning.

Lorraine Simon watches Sarah explain the set up to a new woman who, when viewed from the back, has an extravagant long grey ponytail. Quite lovely. When she sits down Lorraine sees she has a short harsh fringe and a face that will take some effort to unscrew. Such a shame.

Paul is trying to poke his wife to attract her attention but his finger keeps falling short of its target.

Colin’s mouth is moving as he tries to commit a new verse to memory.

Sarah, Mikey says as she rushes past. Sarah. Fuckin’ useless bitch.

I heard that, Michael, Sarah says without turning to face him. Language.

Lorraine watches the new woman looking around the room, her vinegary features offer her no alternative but sharp disapproval, and begins the long process of building up the energy to welcome her.

Lorraine, Paul says, without sound.

I’m a food-chain refusenik, Colin mouths, I’ll let any bastard eat me; I’m a turbo setting cold prick, Come on down and try to heat me.

Sorry, Sarah, Mikey says.

And the tune, Colin says, writes itself. Again he moves his hand back and forth in the air above his head.

What’s that mad tosser doing? Mikey says. Sarah. Sarah! Look at that old cunt. What’s he up to now?

Michael. Language, Sarah says.

Sorry, Sarah, Mikey says. Oi! What are you doing?

Me? Colin says. I don’t think that’s any of your business, do you?

I’ll make it my business, you cheeky bastard, Mikey says.

Michael, Sarah says. Language.

Sorry, Sarah, Mikey says.

Paul succeeds in jabbing a finger into Lorraine’s side with sufficient force.

Yes, dear? Lorraine says.

Wayne Newton, Paul says.

Who is that, dear? Lorraine says.

Bobby Berosini and his orang-utans, Paul says.

It has long been Lorraine’s policy never to ask consecutive questions so she allows a short silence to fill the space between her and her husband before she says, We have a new neighbour. And indicates with her chin the new woman sitting in the corner.

I said I’ll make it my fucking . . . sorry, Sarah . . . blinking business if you don’t stop it, Mikey says. Doin’ my head in.

And what do you intend to do, Michael? Colin says. Kick the crap out of me with your bovver slippers?

Sarah. Sarah! I want to tell you about my mate Physco, Mikey says, as she glides past.

In a moment, Michael, Sarah says. Just let me put these things away and I’m all yours.

I’m going over to say hello, Lorraine says.

The tiger attacked Roy, Paul says.

Yes, dear, Lorraine says. I won’t be a moment.

Yes, Michael, Sarah says. What can I do you for?

I was going to tell you, Mikey says, oh hang on a sec. Morning, Lorraine.

Good morning, Mikey, Lorraine says, able now to look him in the eye and not fixate on the monstrous insect tattoo that covers his cheeks, chin and neck. It’s a cockroach, he had said when he found her staring at it. Until I got to this dump everybody called me Cockroach. Lorraine remembers that Colin then said, I’m happy to keep on calling you Cockroach. Fuck off, Mikey had said.

I’ll be back in two shakes, Sarah says.

Fresh blood, Mikey says. Seems very quiet.

Probably a bit shy, Lorraine says. It can be a little overwhelming at first, can’t it?

You going to say hello? Mikey says.

I thought I’d better, Lorraine says. Show some solidarity.

Sisters are putting up some shelves, Mikey says. How is his nibs today?

Oh, Lorraine says, you know.

Would do my nut in, Lorraine, Mikey says.

You get used to it, Lorraine says.

You pat the arses of the Riviera showgirls for luck, Paul says.

Weird shit, Mikey says.

Indeed, Lorraine says. I’ll see you in a bit.

Sarah, Mikey says. Sarah!

In a minute, Michael, Sarah says. I’m a bit busy right now.

Leave the poor girl alone, Colin says. She doesn’t need to listen to your demented bollocks all day long.

Fuck off, Mikey says. Fuckwit.

Michael. Language, Sarah says.

Sorry, Sarah, Mikey says.

Colin laughs until he starts coughing. The equipment around him shakes along with his body.

To her surprise Lorraine finds herself missing Kenny, owner of the friendly face that greeted her on the way into work for many years. Lorraine had worked in the complaints department of the local water company. A job I had prepared for all my life, she used to say, as Lorraine’s mother was a bit of a moaner, always ready to find fault with the girl. Morning, Lorraine, Kenny always said, carrying his placard that read Keep Your Shit Out Of Our Sea.

Ninety-nine-cent margaritas, Paul says.

Colin. Colin! Col! Mikey says.

Yes, Michael, Colin says.

What’s that word for when you can’t read or write properly? Mikey says.

Illiterate, Colin says.

No, not that one, you stupid git, Mikey says. The other one. Can’t make sense of the words. That one.

Dyslexic, Colin says.

That’s the bastard, Mikey says. Thanks, mate.

Hello, Lorraine says, holding out her hand to the folded up new arrival. I’m Lorraine.

Loosest slots in town, Paul says.

What’s the matter with him? the woman in the corner says. It is not clear where the sound is coming from as her eyes and lips are submerged somewhere in the depths of her skull. Her nose seems crushed between her chin and forehead.

He’s not very well, poor thing, Lorraine says.

He’s a looney, the drunken sketch of a face says.

It’s not his fault, Lorraine says. He thinks we used to live in Las Vegas, you see.

Long silence in the room.

Until . . .

We didn’t, Lorraine says. We’ve never been anywhere near there. But he really misses it.

They’re tearing down The Algiers! Paul says.

Why? Colin says.

Why what? Mikey says.

Dyslexic, Colin says.

Oh, Mikey says, I was going to tell Sarah about Physco. Remember Physco?

It’s hard to forget someone who has Physco tattooed on their forehead, Mikey, Colin says.

Colin finds himself missing those Saturday mornings rehearsing in the playcentre before it opened for all the kids at 10am. He was a favourite of the playleader, Jonathan, who trusted him with the keys.

It was meant to say Psycho, Mikey says, but that tattooist down the Front was a fucking dyslexic. He did this. Mikey points to his own face. But no fucker ever went to him for words once they’d seen the mess he made of Physco.

You’ll soon get used to it, Lorraine says. We’re a very friendly bunch once you get to know us.

Colin rearranges the memory of his coxcomb and says, I’m a rucksacked global warming tourist; a lunch packed art for God’s sake purist; a laryngitic foghorn hoarse in the Devil’s mist; a sober pawn when the Queen and whatshisface get home pissed.

What are you doing that for, Mikey says. Stop doing that thing with your hands.

Blackjack with Benny’s Cowgirls, Paul says.

It’s bad enough with him, Mikey says.

Colin runs his fingers in a luxuriant sweep through the air above his head, brushes the hardened soaped tips into a series of satisfying though invisible peaks, and says, And the tune, Michael, writes itself.

We all have our little ways, Lorraine says. But it’s lovely here, really. The chiropodist comes this afternoon. Gloria. She knows ever so much about celebrities and all the things they get up to.

The Flamingo was Bugsy’s place, Paul says.

Colin. Colin! Mikey says. C’mere.

Colin, in a series of vague hopeless gestures, signals he is fixed in place by an array of tubes, canisters and chrome frames.

Fair enough, mate, Mikey says. I’ll come to you.

This in itself is no small feat, as Mikey’s mutinous legs gave up obeying his commands some time ago. Generally speaking, once Mikey commits to a position in the room then he tends to stick to it until it is time to eat.

Make sure you sit next to me for lunch, Lorraine says. We can get to know each other better.

The new woman gurns in reply.

I’d better get back to him, Lorraine says. He’ll be wondering where I am.

Sarah meets Mikey as he is halfway to Colin.

Michael, I’m all yours, Sarah says. What did you want to tell me?

Mikey, peeved that he has used his story on Colin, who already knew all about it, has no appetite to repeat it. He dismisses her with face and hand and continues his slow progress to a chair identical to the one he has recently vacated.

Teller never speaks, Paul says.

Who’s that, dear? Lorraine says.

Terry Fator moved from The Mirage, Paul says.

Lorraine’s consecutive question policy holds firm.

Where’d you get yours? Mikey says, effecting an emergency landing on the seat next to Colin. When his breathing returns to something like his version of normal, he points a shaking finger at Colin’s face. The blue stains there used to show a dustbin on one cheek and a ripped up Union Jack on the other. Now they are just faded blemishes, company for the brown, black and white spots, blotches and patches that cover his whole body.

These? Colin says.

Yeah, Mikey says.

Same place, Colin says. There wasn’t anywhere else then, was there?

Now they’re all over the fucking place, Mikey says.

Michael, Colin says. Language.

Mikey laughs and the insect that covers his face creases up and then unfolds slowly as if taking the lead role in an intricate mating ritual. He says, Arse, sorry Sarah, hole.

Are you comfy, love? Lorraine says. Can I get you anything?

They’re tearing down The Stardust, Paul says.

I was just speaking to the new lady, Lorraine says. She seems nice. A bit shy.

The last place you could play poker and smoke, Paul says.

You’ve never smoked, Paul, have you, love? Lorraine says.

Place your bets, Paul says.

Or played poker, Lorraine says.

No more bets, Paul says.

What happened to him? Colin says.

Who? Mikey says.

You know, Colin says. Physco.

How’s he doing, Lorraine? Mikey says.

The same, Mikey, Lorraine says.

And how about you, love? How are you holding up? Mikey says.

Oh it’s hard, Mikey, Lorraine says. But I just count my blessings.

Well, Mikey says. You know my offer. If you ever want a break then you know where my room is. I can assure you that everything down there is in good working order.

Oh, Mikey, Lorraine says. You’re terrible.

Rat Pack tribute, Elvis lookalike, he does Marilyn, Cher, Madonna, Celine Dion, breakfast buffet, strip steaks, Paul says.

It was hard on all of us when he was a copper, wasn’t it, Col? Mikey says. I remember your husband, Lorraine. He could be a right bastard.

It was his job, Mikey, Lorraine says. And I’m sure you were quite the scoundrel, weren’t you?

Mikey grins and winks and says, What do they call that thing where you’ve behaved like a right mean fucker but one day it comes back to bite you in the arse?

Karma, Colin says.

That’s what’s sitting in that chair next to you, Lorraine, love, Mikey says. Fucking karma.

Mikey misses glue. Nothing else. He finds himself daydreaming about the ritual of scraping some evo stik into an empty crisp packet, fixing it over your nose and mouth, and huffing till nothing matters. He sees himself sitting on the ground outside the playcentre, leaning against its timber walls, drifting off to the sound of Colin’s terrible band trying to make its way through at least one terrible song.

So, Colin says, what happened to him?

Who? Mikey says.

Who’d you think? Colin says. Physco.

OK, grandad, Mikey says. Keep your hair on. Let me think. Well, he got married to that primary school teacher. Remember that?

It rings a vague bell, Colin says.

And one of his grandsons or grandsons-in-law or something, Mikey says, something like that. One of the younger ones in his family anyway became some sort of bigwig in . . . I want to say computers. Or phones or something. Maybe something you put on your phone. Those things.

Apps, Colin says.

Apps, Mikey says. Sounds about right. Anyway this guy is rich as shit and so he pays for Physco to stay at home being looked after by a whole fucking squad of fucking carers.

Michael. Language, Sarah says.

Sorry, Sarah, Mikey says. I didn’t see you there.

Do you need to see Gloria, Paul? Sarah says.

Not one but two eighteen-hole golf courses, Paul says.

I think it’s probably best you do, Lorraine says.

How old were you when you stopped sniffing glue, Col? Mikey says.

I dunno, Colin says. Twenty? Twenty-one at the latest. I know you carried on for years. You were very committed.

I miss it, Col, Mikey says. I need it now more than I did then. That stuff is wasted on the young.

There’s some builders coming in to do some tiling in the showers next week, Colin says. Maybe they could sort you out.

Mikey grins and his cockroach antennae reach out to his eyebrows.

That would be sweet, Mikey says.

Sarah points the tv remote at the set that is fixed high on the wall in the corner of the room, six feet above the new woman’s head. Immediately a chirpy morning voice flies into the air and forms a threatening word cloud up by the ceiling. It says, And finally, today in Los Angeles . . . and the cloud breaks and bursts and rains down on the heads of everybody in the room.

Lorraine sits up even straighter. Oh no, she says.

Paul looks up.

Jesus fuck no, Mikey says.

Turn it off somebody, Lorraine says. Quickly. Someone.

Paul wells up.

Oopsadaisy, Colin says.

Paul Simon is gazing up at the images beaming in from a country he has never visited but which holds all his memories. His tears gush like the fountains at The Bellagio.

I bet he wishes he had his money, Kenny used to say.