Now and then, during a quiet spell at home in his authentic, multi-chimneyed, paddock-graced manor house, 'Low Pastures,' or, say, when business went sluggish at the club he owned in Shield Terrace, Ralph Ember liked to think back to certain, undeniably very rough, handgun episodes in his past. Liked? No, not quite that. In fact, not that at all. He didn't enjoy recalling those harsh times. The memories could cause near-paralysing pain, and possibly some shame. He had to compel himself to re-run them in his head.

So, why do it? Why pipe torment aboard? He knew the answer. Of course he did. He wanted to check something, recheck something – something crucial to him, something sensitive, something non-stop fucking troublesome. He had to prove that nothing in his behaviour during those lawless, violent capers long ago could justify the disgusting nickname some still vilely blessed him with: 'Panicking Ralph,' or even worse, 'Panicking Ralphy.' In Ember's opinion, this foul, dangly 'y,' stuck on to give an entirely unwanted jingle, made him sound feeble and pathetically childish, a gibbering kid.

Very few – other than that insolent, eternally savage, bombastic sod, Assistant Chief Constable Desmond Iles – would call Ember Panicking Ralph or Ralphy to his face. But he felt certain the slur circulated as more or less routine abuse among his enemies; and probably among some of his seeming friends, too: anything for a smirk, disloyalty included. Although this hurt and angered Ralph he obviously could not prevent it. But he searched for solace. By going over and over the ancient details he tried to convince himself he'd never in fact actually faltered, had never chickened, despite terrible, salvo dangers in some of the gang jobs then. 'Panicking Ralph,' 'Panicking Ralphy' – these were surely utterly undeserved smears, weren't they? Weren't they? The word 'Mondial' kept recurring among his memories – kept badgering and taunting him.

Ember had a high business status now (income, six hundred thousand plus a year, and rising, the bulk untaxed, naturally) so that those contemptuous nicknames seemed especially offensive to him. And he enjoyed an admirable civic status, too, frequently publishing very heartfelt and constructive letters in the local Press on environmental and pollution matters. The signature he used for these was 'Ralph W. Ember' – such an immense distance in tone, import, quiet dignity from 'Panicking Ralph' or 'Panicking Ralphy.' Befouled rivers he particularly focused on. He felt more or less sure his wife, Margaret, had run across at least hints of those cruel names, but she had the decency and kindness not to mention them to him.

Ralph's social club, The Monty, also brought him a kind of distinction. It used to be a select, comfortable haven for local professional and commercial people, and, although the clientele had changed since Ralph bought it, he was careful to preserve the rich mahogany panelling, spacious, marble-themed lavatory-cloakrooms, and excellent brass bar room fittings, which he would often polish himself. Ambience. He longed to create the perfect ambience: vital; indispensable for any communal meeting place. This objective had the irresistible strength of a grail for Ember.

Not long ago he'd decided to fix a heavy metal sheet aloft between a couple of pillars. He thought it would baffle any attempt by envious, recession-poxed rival trade colleagues to rip him apart with sudden automatic fire from just inside the club doorway, before hoofing it to their getaway car, the murderous bastards. Without that elevated defensive barrier he'd be a simple target, seated at his little accounting desk behind the bar.

Of course, he could have found himself a less exposed position in the club, somewhere not so easily targeted. This, though, would have been a virtual admission that the label 'Panicking Ralph,' or even 'Ralphy' was spot on. Ralph at his miniature desk, very obviously presiding over things at the club, had become part of Monty tradition. To wilt by seeking out some obscure, sheltered corner would indicate a sickening collapse of courage and of dignity. It would, in his opinion, be like the master of a ship abandoning his sinking vessel in a storm before making certain all the crew and passengers had safely taken to the lifeboats. This didn't mean he should casually leave himself vulnerable. It was only intelligent and realistic to establish basic precautions. And so, the metal umbrella.

But to offset the rather chilling impression it might give of The Monty's character, he had arranged for this rectangular, three-centimetre-thick, anti-dum-dum screen to be covered with enlarged prints from the poet and illustrator William Blake's famous work, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, in a sort of montage. These sketches had a real, swirling power to them, inevitable if you merged two opposites like heaven and hell; there'd be aggro; it would be no tranquil marriage, and this was before the time of Relate counselling. If anyone quizzed him about the purpose of his decorated metal slab he'd say it was to do with controlling the air-conditioning currents. 'Please don't ask me how, though! I obediently do what the experts recommend.' Or he might reply that he'd introduced this shield to match the club's address in Shield Terrace. He would have been interested to know why the terrace had that name. Perhaps in another century there had been a battle hereabouts, with shields used against longbows and/or halberds. He felt that this possibility gave the club extra significance. History could thrill Ralph, make him feel part of what he called 'a grand panoply'.

He had very major ambitions for The Monty, but occasionally he'd wonder whether it was grossly and stupidly optimistic to think he could bring about the enormous changes he wanted. This deep doubt made him more determined to buttress his identity in other ways. One of these was to abolish if he could his dread that those smelly monikers, 'Panicking Ralph' and/or 'Panicking Ralphy' might be terribly accurate and justified. He sometimes sensed a gap inside him where his hopes for The Monty had previously thrived.

He used to believe that one day he'd raise the social and intellectual standing of his club to match The Athenaeum's or at least The Garrick's in London. Ralph intended to chuck most of the current Monty membership and put a definite end to many types of rowdy shindig he tolerated there at present. Although some of these festive functions might be absolutely OK and acceptable – wedding receptions, christening parties, post-funeral get-togethers, gatherings to honour Her Majesty the Queen's official birthday, or the anniversary of Trafalgar – others were not. He had meant to exclude what he thought of as definitely 'non-Athenaeum, non-Garrick' type celebrations marking, for instance, prison releases; turf war victories; paroles; acquittals; bail awards against all the odds; effectively silenced and/or retracting witnesses.

He could still think along those lines, but not with quite the same bounce these days. Ember didn't understand how it had come about. For the present he'd lost some of the absolute, bullish faith in his scheme to lift The Monty to...