12

Mary had thought people would take the loss of a grandmother less seriously than, say, the death of a parent, but it had not turned out like that. Dorothea’s husband had a week’s holiday due to him and he took over her job. The Trattons in Crete saw to the arrangements for returning Frederica Jago’s body. The undertakers were helpful if grimly lugubrious. Alistair arrived and shepherded her to the registering of the death, the ordering of flowers, the passing on of the news to solicitors.

“It’s just the same as if you’d lost your mother,” he said, his attitude quite changed from what it had been that evening the news came. “It’s the same kind of grief. We do wrong when we judge the bereaved person’s feelings by some level of kinship.”

This man was the same one that only a week before had told her she should be thankful not to have had to nurse her grandmother through a lingering end. Alistair had not mentioned money or the disposal of the house in Belsize Park. He had not mentioned sex either, or staying overnight. And nothing had been said about the transplant or the Harvest Trust.

There had been nothing from Leo. She had met him only three times but she missed him. “Desperately” was the word that came to mind. She told herself not to be so extreme, hysterical almost. How could she feel an intense longing for the company of someone she hardly knew? She had begun to dream about him, once in an erotic and romantic scenario that shocked her awake.

Flesh of my flesh, she remembered, bone of my bone. Those words of his had been the high point of an emotional moment when she had felt briefly that years of intimacy lay behind them. Was it unnatural or presumptuous to have believed then that years of closeness lay ahead of them?

He had disappeared into nothingness. The day after the dream in which he held her, kissed and caressed her, she had the strange feeling that if she never saw him again, if he had gone from her life as swiftly as he had entered it, those few hours they had spent together would remain with her always.

Sorrow at her grandmother’s death competed with the emotions Leo had aroused, but it failed to drive him from her mind. If he had come to her she could have talked to him about Frederica Jago. He would have listened, would have wanted to hear. Alistair cut short her reminiscences. Memories and recollections weren’t to his taste.

“I did know your grandmother, darling. I knew her a lot better than I know my own relations.”

And Dorothea said dwelling on the past was upsetting. Once the funeral was over she should put all that behind her.

“I don’t agree with all this talking things through. It just makes it worse. Look at all those people who talked things through and discovered they’d been abused as kids. Wouldn’t they have been better off not knowing?”

“It isn’t that kind of talking I mean. I don’t want a therapist.”

“You want to live in the present,” said Dorothea.

Leo, Mary somehow guessed, would have listened and asked all the right questions, would have been patient with her, spent hours if necessary hearing about the grandmother who had been a mother and friend and a great consolation for the trials of life and whom no one could replace. But she was half-afraid now that she would never see Leo again.

She went back to work before the funeral. It was better to be at the Irene Adler than in Charlotte Cottage alone. An evening talking to Celia Tratton, who had come back from Crete the day before, made her feel calmer, more able to accept. The number of tourists visiting the museum had fallen off since the murder had ceased to be a talking point and no longer had its place in newspapers, and Mary used a half hour when no one came to try to phone Leo.

It had taken a good deal of self-persuasion to get her to this point. She had reminded herself of all the things he had said to her, the kind and flattering things, how almost everything he had said at that first meeting and on the Friday had indicated that he wanted them to be friends. His last words, tinged with impatience, she tried to put from her mind. She did her best to banish the picture she had of his abrupt departure. Something had happened to prevent his getting in touch, perhaps something to do with his brother. Or it might be that he had tried to phone her but had given up because the line had been so frequently engaged since her grandmother’s death. Reminding herself of that, she had on the previous evening three times attempted to phone at his brother’s number, but there had been no reply.

Had she ever told him precisely where she worked? He had told her only that he was employed by his brother and had a part-time job. Whether that was at home or in some office he hadn’t said. There was no mystery about it, of that she was sure, there simply had been no occasion to go into details about the job.

By now she was beginning to ask herself what she would say if he did answer. Why haven’t I heard from you? Can we meet? I would like to see you again? All were impossible for someone like her. She wanted an explanation but knew she was incapable of asking a man she had only met three times why he had dropped her. He could hardly be put into the category of an inconstant lover. Perhaps she could just ask him how he was, make some bland, empty inquiry. She dialed the number and again there was no reply.

It rained on the day of the funeral. Alistair took time off work and was there to hold an umbrella over her. The man she had met at Frederica’s dinner and who had asked her to the cinema with him came to the church with a woman who was clearly a girlfriend. The elderly friends were there, all but the Blackburn-Norrises. Mary made a mental note to phone their hotel in Acapulco and break the news gently to them. Frederica’s solicitor, who had also been at that dinner with his wife, sat in a front pew, and when it was all over, and the dismal gathering afterward in Belsize Park was all over, he stayed behind.

Mary wondered why, vaguely thinking that perhaps she had done something wrong in inviting mourners to a place that was not hers, or not yet legally hers. But she had supposed it would be even more heinous to hold any sort of party in Charlotte Cottage. However, Mr. Edwards had remained behind for a very different reason and one that Alistair, refilling his sherry glass, seemed to know all about. Suddenly a staginess took over from the funereal atmosphere. Mr. Edwards whispered something to Alistair and Alistair said, “I am sure my fiancée is quite up to hearing it now.”

The two of them retired with measured tread to Frederica’s dining room. Mary was so indignant at being called Alistair’s fiancée that she hardly noticed the door had closed and they were in there together. It opened after a few seconds; Alistair put his head out and he asked Mary in a low, very serious voice if she would come in and join them.

Mr. Edwards had seated himself at the head of the table. Alistair sat at the foot. But when Mary came in he got up, held a chair out for her, and stood behind it. He went on standing behind it after she had sat down, like a husband in a Victorian wedding photograph, she thought.

“Mr. Edwards is going to tell you the contents of your grandmother’s will, my dear.”

“My dear” was another departure. The two of them were taking her over in a patronizing, paternalistic sort of way, and the idea came to her that if only Leo were there he would stop this happening. But she restrained herself, nodded to Mr. Edwards, and told him please to go ahead.

With a small deprecatory cough, he told her what she knew already, that this house was now hers, and told her too what she had never dreamed of, that her grandmother had left her everything she possessed, just under two million pounds.

•   •   •

If Mary had for a moment thought that somehow—she couldn’t begin to guess how—Alistair had known, that he and the solicitor had been in cahoots, one look over her shoulder at his face dispelled that. It was like someone else’s face, someone she had never known, for it had crumpled and grown soft, his eyes very wide open, his mouth slack. He pulled out the chair next to hers and sat down on it. She half expected him to throw his arms across the table and lay his head on them, but he remained quite still, staring at a picture on the opposite wall.

Mr. Edwards was talking about small bequests, little sums to little charities. She scarcely heard him. She was asking herself why it was she had never guessed her grandmother had had so much. He stopped talking quite suddenly and turned on her a bright, almost gleeful smile, as if he had not, some two hours before, attended the funeral of an old and valued friend and client.

“Thank you,” Mary said.

Alistair took hold of her hand and held it hard. She saw Mr. Edwards looking at them benevolently, as at a young couple on the threshold of their married life, made happy by a windfall of gargantuan proportions. They could hardly realize it yet, he must be thinking, the joyful shock had half stunned them, but in a few moments …

Even the tone of his voice had changed as he began talking about probate, the law’s delays. Mary nodded. Alistair found the tongue that she thought must have been cleaving to his palate and said, “Yes, absolutely. My fiancée is in no immediate need. And afterward—well, I am in banking as no doubt you know, and I can take care of all that.”

The rain had begun again by the time Mr. Edwards left. He put up his umbrella and made his way at a half-run toward the street and a taxi. Alistair had phoned for one for them. They traveled back to Charlotte Cottage in silence. Having closed the front door, he turned to her and tried to take her in his arms. Worms turn, she thought, and I have not even been quite a worm, more of a trapped insect that can still sting. She held his hands, took them down from her shoulders, and stepped back.

“It’s a strange thing,” she said, “that while I was living with you I was your girlfriend and now I’ve left you I’m your fiancée. How do you account for that?”

“You’re going to say it’s the money, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not going to say that, Alistair. You’ve said it. You’ve said what I couldn’t bring myself to say.”

“Perhaps it’s slipped your mind that I’ve been here seeing to things practically every day since your grandmother died. I didn’t know what kind of money she’d left.”

“You made an intelligent guess. You’re a banker, as you told Mr. Edwards, you know about these things.”

“Darling,” he said, “darling, I want to marry you. All right, I didn’t know that until you’d left me. Is that so bad? I didn’t value you as you should be valued while you were with me, but when you’d gone I missed you so desperately.”

“ ‘Darling’ and ‘my fiancée,’ I think of them as expressions people use when they don’t want to say someone’s name.”

He said angrily, “What’s that got to do with it? I said I wanted to marry you, I told you why. You’ve no right to hold the past against me. Those things will never happen again, I’ve promised you that.” He clenched his hands. “You haven’t even noticed, have you?”

“Noticed what?”

“That I haven’t once mentioned the transplant, that harvest thing, whatever you call it. I’ve put that behind me. I made myself a promise never to say any more about it and I’ve kept to that. What more do you want?”

It grew easier with every sentence. Her strength increased at an almost alarming rate. “I don’t want anything, Alistair.”

“What does that mean?”

“From you. I don’t want anything. I thought I’d explained that.”

“No, you’ve got everything, haven’t you? What you’ve been waiting for. Independence. You don’t need me is what you mean.”

He made a kind of running jump at her, taking her by surprise. He seized her by the shoulders and began to shake her. His face had changed back to what it used to be, flushed dark red, the eyes very black. “You’re mine, you can’t get away from me like that, just because you’re rich now, you think you don’t need me, after everything I’ve done for you, after what we’ve been—”

The doorbell rang. His hands tightened, then faltered, and she twisted away from him. Her teeth were chattering. She put up her hand to cover her mouth as if its pressure would stop the shaking. The bell rang again and she went to answer it, speechless, trembling, unable to speak to Bean, who stood on the doorstep wearing his polite obsequious smile.

“Good afternoon, miss. Little fellow ready for his walkies, is he?”

The borzoi, the beagle, the golden retriever, the chocolate poodle, and the scottie were tied to the gatepost. A large sticking plaster covered most of the bald part of Bean’s head. Mary looked at it in a dazed sort of way before fetching Gushi. Alistair followed her to the door, said a hearty “Good afternoon” to Bean and that it was far from ideal weather for dog-walking.

“Needs must, sir, when the devil drives,” said Bean ambiguously.

Mary shut the door. Alistair was leaning against the wall.

“Look, I’m sorry about that. But you can be so exasperating I get carried away. I suppose I just have this feeling I can shake some sense into you.”

“You ought to know by now that you can’t.”

She opened the door again. She was struggling hard not to cry and succeeded better with the door open, with Bean and the dogs still visible, with the man in the house opposite braving a shower to deadhead his roses.

“I’d like you to go. Please just go.”

There was a moment, no more than a few seconds, in which it seemed he might wrench the door from her, slam it shut, and lean against it, confronting her. He must have thought of it, maybe postponed such action until a later date. Something had struck him as dumb as she had been with Bean, perhaps a too-late realization of what he had done, how he had reverted to the behavior he said he had put behind him. He took his raincoat from the hallstand and went out into the rain, walking very fast.

Alone, she could cry if she wanted to, but she no longer wanted to. She went into the living room, sat at Lady Blackburn-Norris’s desk, and began writing a letter to Leo.

•   •   •

The nuns on Primrose Hill had dispensed tea to Pharaoh the key man at five on Saturday afternoon along with Racker and Dill and some of the jacks men and himself. Roman told the police all this and that he had spoken to Pharaoh, insofar as it was possible to have a conversation with anyone so distracted and strange and out of touch with reality as the key man was. He understood that he had supplied Pharaoh with an alibi for something that had occurred at five, though no one told him what.

When he asked what had happened, in his middle-class way, the way that expects explanation from authority, they said they were unable to tell him that. For a moment he thought the officer was going to call him “sir.” Bewildered by his accent and perhaps by a very different manner from that of the jacks men, the young policeman was on the verge of calling him “sir” until he reminded himself this was a vagrant he was talking to.

Roman might have told the police something of Pharaoh’s life but they hadn’t asked him, and he had learned, while on the street, not to offer gratuitous information. There was no reason for them to suspect him of being the repository of Pharaoh’s secrets, if indeed he was, if the story told him one night on the canal bank was even true. Roman believed it was. Francie Quin, who had recounted it, was no more drunk on “milk” than he normally was and he offered the story without bursting into the jacks men’s mad laughter or their occasional growling belligerence. Everyone knew Pharaoh’s real name was Jimmy Clancy, but only Quin had discovered where his sobriquet came from. Back in the seventies, when very young, when still in his teens, he had been attached to a religious cult that roamed the country in battered vans and trucks and, like strolling players of old, performed on the roadside or in a field its own version of miracle and mystery plays. In one such play, a dramatized “Moses in the Bulrushes,” Clancy had played the King of Egypt, whose daughter finds Moses and brings him up. The title had stuck and he was Pharaoh thereafter.

It was in those days too that he had first, as was fashionable, put the blue tint on his hair. Or rather, his sister, a hairdresser, had done it for him. Quin fancied he had been schizophrenic since his teens, since before the time he joined the cult. Most of the members heard God talking to them, so there was nothing strange to be noted in Pharaoh’s behavior.

“Though it was more Satan than God, if you ask me,” said Quin. “An imp of Satan tormenting him. He was supposed to find the keys of the kingdom, whatever they might be.”

“The keys of the Kingdom of Heaven, Christ is said to have given them to Peter,” said Roman, and because he didn’t want to seem a fount of knowledge, “or that’s what I’ve heard. Something like that. The pope would have them now.”

“They real then, are they? I mean, like what they lock up the park with?”

Roman said he didn’t think so, more a symbol, or a way of speaking, but Quin seemed to know what he meant. In the dark canal a full moon was reflected, like a round white light under the water. Trees trailed thin branches across its surface as if to catch the moon in their net. It could have been some broad sluggish river they sat beside, with dense vegetation growing down to its banks, a mass of complex leafiness that might have stretched, for all that could be seen, back across the city for miles, covering buildings in a dark wilderness. Perhaps the Nile had been like that, where Moses floated in his rushy cradle.

A reddish London sky was all scudded over with wisps of black cloud. Distantly the tall Edwardian blocks, palely lit with sodium and neon, gleamed like palaces, the castles in the sleeping wood. The sounds of the city, as light as they ever became, thinned and rarefied, throbbed softly through the earth.

The rest of the jacks men had gone home to their hostel in Camden, a place Quin avoided if he could elude the police and sleep in the park. He had collected his DSS money that day, so had brown ale instead of meths and water, and he passed the bottle. Roman took a swig so as not to be standoffish. “When he got bad they sectioned him and he was in this bin for most of the eighties. He come out four or five years back to what they call care in the community.” Quin gave a soft derisive laugh. “His mum gave him a bed for two nights. After that her and his stepfather changed the locks and he couldn’t get back. He didn’t know and he came back and tried his keys in the locks. Them was the keys he started with, the ones that wouldn’t open her door.”

“Where does he get them from? The rest of the keys, I mean?”

“Nicks them, God knows. He don’t never use them. They’re not the right ones, they don’t open the doors he wants open.”

“Lift up your heads, O ye gates,” Roman muttered, wishing immediately afterward that he hadn’t.

But Quin seemed gratified. “That’s right. Say some more.”

So Roman said, “Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory shall come in …”

“You want to say that to Pharaoh,” said Quin. “He’d like that, would Pharaoh.”

But remembering the religious cult, Roman said, “I’ve no doubt he knows it already.” Whether the police had actually spoken to Pharaoh he couldn’t tell. He looked at newsboards, half-expecting to read of another murder, but there was nothing. Of Effie there had been no sign since the day they found John Dominic Cahill’s body and he had told her to leave the gardens. But he sensed among the men and the occasional woman who slept rough on the borders of the park, a new tension, an awareness of danger and threat, as if nemesis had come to disturb their precarious peace.

The weather was mild, though still cold at night. He took his clothes and one of his blankets to the launderette in Baker Street. His old winter-worn trainers he threw away and bought a new pair. The best time of year was coming for the street sleepers. It was not until you slept on doorsteps that you realized real summer only comes to England after midsummer is past and in those short months perhaps a mere four or five nights will be warm.

On one of those, in the first week of June, he slept in the open on Primrose Hill, hoping to see the stars. But even up there the sky was overcast by some unnatural vapor and suffused from below by a reddish artificial light. He lay awake for a long time, remembering Elizabeth’s interest in astronomy and how he had read it up to keep pace with her just as he had bought himself a book on pond life so that he might know what Daniel was talking about. But very little life of any kind remained in English ponds, fertilizers and insecticides had seen to that, and the stars were no longer visible from a West Hampstead garden.

He could conjure up their three faces as they had been when last he saw them, but now as he did so he thought how he had frozen them in the ice of his present. Had they lived they would no longer look like that. Sally would, but Elizabeth would be nearly seventeen now, a young woman, and as for Daniel—at perhaps no time once babyhood is past does the face change so much as it does between eight and ten, and Daniel would be ten now. So he, their father, was looking at a mirage, at outdated photographs, at lost lives gone beyond any real recall.

For the first time since he had taken to the street he thought of the future. Up until this moment there had only been the past and the present, for he supposed, though he had never put this into uttered or silent words, that he would not long survive, that life could not support so much pain. Men have died from time to time, he quoted to himself, and worms have eaten them, but not of love. Not of grief either, it seemed. The future stretched before him, the door to it had opened at last, and on the other side he saw, white and rolling uphill, an infinite street on which the homeless slept and he among them.

•   •   •

If Carl had said it once he had said it a hundred times, that he didn’t want Hob coming upstairs. Well, he could come up for a social call if he wanted, but Hob never made social calls. He only wanted one thing and Carl was ready enough to supply it, but not at home, not in front of Leo.

Hob knew all that but he was desperate. He wasn’t just in a state, this was the mother of all states. It was the worst he’d ever known since that time he’d spent all one night in a cell and they wouldn’t give him anything, not even one of those new type antihistamines. They’d had a good laugh at his expense, it had been the funniest thing they’d seen in months.

He knew he was getting bad when he could hear the mice. According to Carl there was a mouse for every person in the British Isles, which made about fifty-eight million, and most of them lived in the walls of Redferry House. Or that was Hob’s opinion. Another thing he’d heard was that no matter where you were, city or countryside, you were never more than six feet from a rat. His sister had told him you could be sitting somewhere really upmarket, like the bar of a classy hotel, and there’d be a rat lurking inside the wall behind you or outside the window with the velvet curtains. But it was mice he heard, running around and scratching behind the skirting board. Or, rather, he heard them when he was in a state. The rest of the time he didn’t hear them or else he didn’t care. He’d start feeling shaky, weak, and old, and his muscles would jump and then he’d hear the scratching.

It was hard to say what came first, the panic attack when everything frightened him—the air itself, the light, just having his eyes open, any sort of movement—or the mice scratching. There was very little furniture in his first-floor flat, only a brown vinyl couch with Mickey Mouse scatter cushions and the mattress he slept on and of course the TV, and there was never much food. He usually kept in a packet of Weetabix and one of cream crackers, for his health’s sake. But the night before he’d drunk a lot of vodka in lieu of anything better, eaten a Weetabix to get something on his stomach, and fallen asleep in the middle of it.

When he woke up at dawn or something like that, light anyway, there’d been droves of mice round his feet eating crumbs. He’d yelled out and they’d fled, but he felt so bad that afterward he’d wondered if they were real mice or not and if they were real, could he have seen fifty of them, which was what he thought?

So what with the mice and nothing in the flat but the last of the vodka and six morphine tabs prescribed for his stepfather’s ex-wife’s cancer, he had to go upstairs and see Carl. The way he saw it he didn’t have a choice. For once, the lift was working. If it hadn’t been he reckoned he’d have lain down on the floor and died. His mother’s nan, who was ninety-five, sang a song that went,

It wasn’t a brewery he wanted, more like a chemistry lab, but the songwriter had the right idea. He growled the tune, going up in the lift, but had to stop because he was shrieking. Carl and Leo lived on the seventh floor. Carl had painted the front door quite a nice shade of yellow but someone had tried to break in, and though they hadn’t succeeded they’d gouged a great slash out of the woodwork from the keyhole to the letter box.

A long time passed before the door was answered. Carl came at last. He looked Hob up and down. “I thought I told you not to come here.”

“I’m in a state,” Hob said.

“My home base is out of bounds, Hob,” Carl said. “You know that.”

“I’m in a state. I just want one rock to see me through the weekend.” He pushed past Carl into the flat. “I got to have it, you know me.”

“One rock wouldn’t see you through a revolving door,” said Carl sadly. “Say hello to Leo. He’s not feeling too good.”

“Him and me both. Hi. I got to have it, Carl, don’t fuck me over.”

Leo was lying on the sofa. He didn’t look any worse than usual, or not in Hob’s opinion. When Hob was in a state he hadn’t much time for other people’s ailments. Leo was reading a letter. He looked terrible when he laughed, his face more like a skull than usual.

“Now you’re here you’d better sit down. Turn your visit into a social call, right? How about a cup of tea?”

Hob shook his head feebly. Sitting down in the brothers’ flat, he could sometimes convince himself he was in a kindly rehab center. There was carpet on the floor and armchairs and if the rest of the furniture was of a slightly lower standard than the kind you see exposed for sale on the pavements of Kilburn High Road, it was furniture and it gave some semblance of home to the place. Carl kept it warm, too, for Leo’s sake. Last year, just before Leo came home from the hospital, Carl had made an attempt to paint this room but had abandoned the task halfway through, so that two of the walls were green, one white, and one half green and half white.

Hob’s mum, who’d known Leo all his life, said Carl was more like a father to him than a brother, thought the world of him, worshiped the ground he walked on, which wasn’t much like Hob’s experience of the paternal role. And Carl didn’t have a very tender heart where others were concerned. Now he had Hob seated in a chair with a mug of tea in front of him, he was back conversing with Leo as if there wasn’t anyone else there.

Hob didn’t know who this woman was they were talking about and cared less. The tea tasted like mice piss, anyway. The woman had written to Leo, it sounded like, she was halfway to being his girlfriend, which was crazy on account of everyone knew Leo was on his way out. Carl wasn’t going to talk about it in front of him anyway; Hob might be in a state but he didn’t miss that tiny shake of the head Carl gave Leo. Maybe he’d mouthed something about walls having ears, only Hob couldn’t see. His voice came out in a whine.

“I got to have something, Carl.”

“The fountain then, the old drinking fountain. Ten. When it’s dark. If it’s not me it’ll be Gupta.”

“You not got nothing now? No shit?”

Carl said remotely, “Absolutely no shit, Hob, in all senses of the word.”

“A couple of E’s? Some cycles?”

“You’re the expert, Hob. I don’t even know what cycles are, but I bet they’re on the controlled list.”

“Some jellies?” Hob said hopefully.

“You’re too scared of the needle, you know that,” said Carl. “It’s time I took payment in kind again, I think.” He took the letter from Leo. “Nice handwriting she’s got.”

“She’s got nice things to say.”

Carl laughed. He put the letter in his pocket. “I’ve never done a violent act,” he said conversationally. “Never drawn a drop of blood or caused a moment’s pain in anger. The pain I caused gave infinite pleasure. How does it feel, Hob, doing what you do?”

“I don’t know,” said Hob. “I’m in a state. I’m fucked.”

“I’ll have a job for you one of these days. How would you like that, Hob? A job that was big enough to keep you in rocks or that elephant dope for the rest of your life?”

Hob said with as much eagerness as he could muster, “Have you got a job for me, Carl? I don’t mind work, I’ll work all the hours God gave.”

Carl started laughing. “I bet you will. You’re a scream, did you know that? You know that old dog man, the one in the baseball cap that walks the dogs?”

“I don’t know him. Why would I?”

“I can’t tell you why you would, Hob. Can’t you stop that shaking? You’re rocking the room and Leo’s not a well man. The old dog man may have something for you if you’re in the park around half four in the afternoon. Mind you, I’m only guessing but I reckon he’ll have something. It’s what I’ve heard. You’d better go now. I’ll see you later, or Gupta will.”

Leo was looking at him with those great glassy eyes in his skull face. Hob was beginning to feel very sick. He knew he wouldn’t be sick because he hadn’t eaten anything to bring up, but he needed to be out in the air.

“Say good-bye nicely to Leo,” said Carl. “He’s not feeling very bright.”

Downstairs again, Hob forgot about the fresh air. He’d had an idea. There was just a chance, not much of one but a faint chance, that he’d left a tab or even some blow—who was he kidding?—in the pockets of his clothes.

Everything he possessed lay in heaps on the bedroom floor, some of it piled on the blankets on the end of his mattress to help keep him warm on cold nights. The best he had came from charity shops; the worst, which was his daily wear, out of litter bins or off skips. He started fumbling through the smelly welter of garments, the pockets of an old red cardigan, stiff with dirt and food stains, jeans with missing knees and ragged hems, a scuffed leather jacket that had been his grandfather’s decades ago. The pockets yielded nothing but dead matches and old scratch cards.

His searching became manic and, frustrated, he flung stuff across the room, aged T-shirts that were grayish or blackish, sagging vests, a pair of striped pajama pants. The movement must have disturbed the mice, for the scraping noises began again, and a scurrying and a faint high-pitched squeaking.

Hob lay down on the mattress as the panic attack started and buried his face in the old clothes, uncertain now whether the sounds he heard were made by the mice or by himself. A huge empty loneliness isolated him and he whimpered. He pounded his fists on the floorboards and all the mice fled like an army in the full tilt of retreat.