The theme of ShAM was perhaps hell.

An array of neon letters signalled the portal into despair that was the doorway to ShAM. Perhaps in some other time or place the sign had been tasteful, had not broadcast an invitation to self-contempt across the camber of the street and onto the windows of the businesses opposite. The doorway itself was shamelessly conspicuous, a leopardskin pattern draped across an arch, chrome pipes attempting sculpture down each side. It had the presence of a hooker, standing brazenly between the other doors and soliciting any passing trade, anyone whose eyes could not avoid the garish display. In time, it had become a familiar sight, an entrance most would wish to avoid, but few are resolved enough to stay away from.

Outside the doorway, swinging a set of keys and with a look of intense conceit on his face was a doorman watching us approach. He was dressed entirely in black, his head shaved and the coiled cable of an earpiece disappearing into his collar. He chewed gum with an air of supremacy, a leer in his gaze as he summed us up from our apparel. His shoes tapped in time with his sluggish mind. Alright, he muttered as our group was almost at the doorway, more as a command than a greeting. I looked up, into his eyes for the glimmer of recognition that might be there. His containment of animal emotion and his obvious potential to injure was frightening. He met my gaze until I had to look back at the pavement. Perhaps in the back of his database mind was the recollection of a previous time I had visited ShAM, when he had stopped me and the woman I was with, put his arm across the entrance and looked at me with disdain until I had to ask what the problem was. Even then it did not seem of enough importance to answer until I repeated my question. He ground his gum with disbelief.

"Do I recognise you?" His mastermind had seen through my disguise; the stinging intelligence, too good for the constable's beat he had spurned for the opportunity to stand in this doorway, had ruthlessly uncovered my true identity. He winked at my companion. She frowned.

"I don't think so." I doubted I could thwart his hard-headed pragmatism.

"You that guy off the TV?"

"Who do you mean?"

"Hey, advice: don't try and be clever." He had a vague New York twang in his voice that he had doubtless picked up from his role models.

"I don't know who you mean."

"Yeah?"

"Who?"

"Don't think you're such a bigshot you can make a fool of me."

"I'm not on TV."

"You're not?" The concentration on his face was incredible.

"No."

"How comes I recognise you?"

"I don't know. I've been here before."

"Yeah?"

"Can I go in?"

"Alright. But don't think this is an end to it."

"And end to what?"

"I'm going to be thinking where I seen you from."

"Thank you." He moved his arm back mechanically and we were able to reach the top of the staircase that led down to the interior of the bar.

The theme of ShAM was perhaps hell - an overpriced, upmarket hell with a microbrewery. Inside, bright red downlighting burned the walls and fake flames blazed above ornate uplighters. High-wrought metalwork swerved and contoured around burnished fixtures, across mezzanine levels in elaborate arabesque and up and into the heart of a complex web. Hidden bulbs glowed on the marble bartop or in tarnished mirrors, glittered across the stoppered bottles of spirits and chrome pipes and beerpumps. Antique figurines and ornaments, synthetic trinkets and baubles were hung or glued to patterned alcoves and complicated tables. Animal prints prowled behind mock greenery. Plastic bird of paradise flowers craned their necks into the air, amber head-dresses nodding gently in the breeze of fans placed about the premises to dispel the stagnant heat. The venue was divided into claustrophobic sectors, each a barricade of ample faux leatherette seating and hardwood tables. The sound system swamped the design, booming heavy basslines at a physically intolerable volume. The overall effect created an impression similar to confusion, or abject hysteria.

I approached the bar through the swirling red mist, an infernal fog suffused with pestilential perfumes and cigar smoke. Caricatured faces surrounding me turned and stared in slow motion, thoughts and feelings betrayed in their reptile eyes. In the time it took for the darting attentions of the barstaff to detect my cramped presence at the bar I had regretted the decision to enter, I had repented my former visits, resolved never to come again. Eternity passed. I glanced at my watch. I renewed my resolution and tried to catch the eye of any of the performers serving drinks.

"What would you like?"