In the hotel, he shook off his coat and hung it on a hanger over the bath, then towelled his hair dry and combed it carefully. He avoided meeting his eye in the mirror. In mirrors you couldn’t hide from yourself, no matter what sort of face you put on. He thought it must be something to do with your reflection being reversed. Once, in a Mayfair restaurant – Percy’s treat, needless to say – he had been seated facing a corner where two glass walls met at right angles, so that somehow he was able to see his face the right way round. Some shock that was. Hardly recognised himself. His eyes were all at the wrong level, his nose was crooked and his mouth looked as if he’d had a stroke. Left him feeling queer for days. It was as if there was someone else, the man in the mirror, still lurking inside him.

There was no telephone in the room, of course, so he had to go downstairs and squeeze himself into the wooden booth opposite the reception desk. The air inside was thick and musty, as he imagined the air in jail would be, and smelled of cigarette smoke and sweat. He took up the receiver and wiped the mouthpiece carefully with his handkerchief. Teeming with germs, telephones. The pennies jangled as they dropped into the box.

‘This is Mister Percy,’ he said – it was the first name that came into his head. ‘Mutual friend gave me your name. I need to order an item of hardware.’ He waited, listening. ‘What? That’s right, an indoor model.’

His mind wandered back yet again to thoughts of the late Mr Percy Antrobus, Esq. He had never given much consideration to the old boy, not really, but now, when it was too late, his head was full of him.

Who was Percy, exactly, and more to the point, what was he? He claimed to have fought in the war, in some hush-hush outfit. ‘Special ops.,’ he would say, letting one eyelid fall shut like a window blind and tapping a finger to the side of his nose. One night in his cups he told Terry all about a German sentry he had killed with his bare hands – that was how he said it, ‘with my bare hands’, widening his watery eyes and nodding solemnly. From the way he spoke, Terry could tell he was making it up. Terry knew all about killing, how it looked, what it felt like – how it smelled, too. And he knew Percy had never killed anyone. The next day, when Terry pressed him, he had admitted it, with a giggle. All made up, the terrified look in the Jerry’s eyes, how he called for his Mutti and pissed in his pants – the whole bleeding thing. Terry was disgusted.

See? Everybody wants to be a tough guy, even pudgy old Percy.