‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ Julian said. ‘Why should I expect to be treated any differently? I am just a middle-aged, white moffie, newly out of the closet, exposed for what I am in the greying of my life. My wife has left me, I'm about to lose my privileged position, my closeness to the seat of power and all that. Why should I complain?’

He looked at Kate and Silas in turn.

‘Oh, all right! Don't be so damn virtuous. Forgive me my little bit of bitterness. The problem is, I haven't had a fuck in ages,’ he said vehemently.

People at a nearby table froze, offended murmurs, disapproving eyes.

‘Oh, bugger them,’ Kate said.

‘Yes, let's do that, but first let's have another drink.’

In the waning afternoon, slants of light caught in the leaves of the trees, stirring boughs, a quiet darkening of the sky. The smell of rain in the air. A young woman in the company of the crustaceans at the neighbouring table, deep-jowled she too will be one day, but lovely now in this seductive air, appraised Silas, grey-haired and slim – for his age. Distinguished, familiar somehow, must have seen him on television, one of the new elite. She smiled, a sly gesture, then hid the slight reddening of her face with a quick wave of her hair. Silas responded in spite of the annoyance he felt. How dare she raise insurrection in his groin? In the parliament of his mind, a greyer self still tried to legislate against the turmoil of naked bodies.

‘To being fifty’ , Julian said, glass raised.

‘To being alive,’ Kate said.

‘To fucking, and being fucked,’ Silas said, moved to bravado.

The head lobster alongside them fumed, the young woman laughed into the camouflage of her wavy hair. Kate spluttered a mouthful of wine, Julian applauded, uttering a triumphant, ‘Bravo!’ His ‘lovely young waiter’ brought their bill, unbidden, to the table. The proprietors, black and white, enemies united in their new spirit of dignified enterprise, looked on in frosty disapproval.

22

Michael is negotiating the purchase of a gun, or an exchange, at least. An untraceable weapon in return for the very expensive-looking gun that he stole from Professor Graham's house. He had slipped it out of the desk drawer, where he had seen it on a previous visit, into his satchel, while Shirley ran to the bathroom to dress. To hide her ageing body, to compose her face, to expunge from her mind the joy and the ensuing shame of her screaming climax. She had to go, an afternoon class, Michael had to hurry and dress as well.

Did he want a lift?

No, he was not going to varsity.

She had proffered her cheek, asking for a distant, brushing kiss, then drawn him to her tightly, the memory of their sex surging through her body.