(He took a great breath. He opened his mouth wide. He yelled. In horror at the noise she leant back, letting the firelight full on to his face. This was now entirely round, red and so round that both eyes disappeared in his frown. His pointed tongue curled up, dull red. Bubbles were blown, then burst, then were blown again over his enamelled wet teeth. “Look,” she said low, “your lovely boat.” She held it up. He smashed, with one swipe of the wrist knocking it out of her hand. His ship fell mast first on to the carpet, and did not break. He did not watch. He drew another great breath. This time the yell was louder, higher. It cost him more effort, even made him twist his body. He lay sideways after. She put both hands over her mouth, which was wide open, and so left, in the shadow, a dark hole between firelit fingers over a dark face. He saw from her eyes, from a single, sly smirk, that she was looking at the door behind. Screwing up his eyes he took an even deeper breath, he swelled, he grew, bunched his hands up into fists, in his terror became years younger than his age, and, making an arch of his spine, he let out an astounding screech of hate and fright.)

(At that moment the door opened. Whoever it was came in, took the lady out. Christopher sobbed. Then, or almost at once, was quiet. Out of breath he sat up, gathered his vessel and, gasping, eyes floating with salt water which overflowed in huge tears, he fingered the bowsprit. He choked. He snivelled a bit. And then all was over, forgotten seemingly, done with.)

Roe leaned forward to scratch the calf of his right leg. Before he lay down once more, he blew his nose. He was smirking, that is to say embarrassed, because he did not know what Christopher had been through, the child was too young to be able to tell, because it was his Fireman Instructor, Pye’s, sister of all people, and because, when the boy had been returned by the police, holding his boat tight, Roe was not in the house to put the questions expected.

He groaned as he remembered the upset. The police told Dy they had found Christopher seated comfortable in front of a fire. But if that were so, why was it that the boy could never play with a sailboat again? And why did Dy never refer to this, even when there was the scene with a tanker, painted tropic white, that Christopher simply hurled away from him not three weeks later? He groaned once more as he remembered the situation when at last he himself had returned that fatal afternoon.