“Terry!” Dennis’s derision was directed not only at Terry, but at George for being so gullible. “You don’t want to listen to him.”

George was goaded into direct attack.

“Someone working at this hotel smokes cannabis. Is it you?”

Dennis was frightened.

“Don’t you talk like that. If anyone hears you I could lose my job.”

“So you admit that you do?”

“No, of course I don’t.”

“Where did you get it from? From Tom French?”

“Tom? Tom never smoked.” The astonishment in that reply at least seemed genuine to George.

Dennis had answered the questions despite himself, but after his last outburst he seemed to realize what he was doing. He stood up, levering his huge body off the chair by leaning on the table. He thrust his face towards George.

“You leave me alone,” he said. “You hear. You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

With a swagger, he left the room.

The next day Molly went to find Terry. She waited until the receptionist was answering the telephone before going through the door marked “Staff Only.” The corridor was dirty and untidy, cluttered with furniture awaiting repair, tools, overalls. Terry was alone in the kitchen. He was leaning over a huge sink. His hair was long in the front, and he was peering through it, concentrating hard on the pan he was cleaning. He heard Molly close the door behind her.

“You get out of here,” he said. “You’re not allowed in here. Dennis, he’ll have a fit if he sees you in here.”

“You promised to tell me all about Tom. Look, I’ve brought you some cigarettes.”

She held the packet towards him. But he was very nervous because she was in the kitchen, and it was forbidden to let anyone in the kitchen.

“Dennis is my friend,” he said, taking the cigarettes, as if that fact had been disputed. “ Dennis says that if I talk to you he’ll make them send me back to the hospital.”

“That doesn’t sound very friendly.”

Terry, after many years’ practice, was sensitive to mockery. He peered at her suspiciously, hurt. He looked sulky and betrayed and stood fidgeting, waiting for her to go.

“You said you were my friend.”

“Terry, I am your friend.”

She could only see the bottom half of his face because of the long, untidy fringe. He almost seemed to hide behind it. Molly watched him and waited for some reaction. His clothes were patched and ill-fitting, but they were clean and so was he. Mrs. Black looked after him well. His face was blank, and he faced her, sullen and unresponsive.

“Terry,” she said in desperation, “if I buy you a present, any present you like, will you tell me about Tommy?”

“What I told you about Tommy, it wasn’t the truth.” He spoke flatly, not trying to sound convincing, not caring. He peered through his hair, squinting up to look at her defiantly.

“Why did you lie about Tommy?”

“Because I’m batty.” He laughed, bending double in a mirthless parody of laughter. “ Batty Terry.”