When they were outside the station, Gini turned to the girl. All the blood had drained from her face; her forehead was clammy with sweat.

“You’re late?” Gini said. “How late?”

“Over an hour. Nearly two. Those pigs do that…”

Gini pitied her then. All the defiance and bravado had gone. She could not focus her eyes; they had that look Mitchell had described, that dead-eyed yet frantic look of animal need. She swayed. Farther up the street Rowland had succeeded in flagging down a cab. He climbed into it and the car accelerated toward them, then came to a halt. Chantal surfaced, just momentarily, from her glassy state, and gave Gini one quick, sharp street look.

“You and him?”

“He has been, yes.”

“I thought so. I can always tell.” She swayed again. “Just get me back to my room.”

She half fell, half slid into the rear seat beside Rowland. She lay back with her eyes closed. The tremblings intensified and became a series of spasmodic jerks. Gini held her hand and averted her face.

The room on rue St. Séverin was a terrible place. In a space twelve feet square was crammed a double bed, a table and chairs, boxes, piles of clothes, a huge television set. It smelled of poverty and an attempt to make a home without means; from the restaurants below, cooking smells drifted up. Two women lived here, Gini realized, Chantal and—presumably—the older woman who had answered the door to her the previous night. The remains of a breakfast lay on the table: two cups, two plates, some croissants and jam. On top of the unmade bed were two bundled nightdresses, one blue, one pink. The room was very cold, and smelled damp. An effort had been made to keep it clean. The dishes in the sink were neatly stacked. There was a cat-litter tray on the floor, and in a corner, half hidden behind a pile of cheap paperbacks, was a thin black cat. Curled up in a ball, on the bed, was a thin, timid lurcher dog. Gini bent to it and stroked its gray bristling fur. Then she turned to the windows. Through the net curtains she could just see the outline of the church. It was still raining; the thin light was already beginning to fade. She stared at the curtains and the church, because she could not bear to watch what was happening with Rowland behind her. “Help me,” Chantal was saying. “You have to help me. I’m spilling it. I can’t hold my hand steady… Christ. I burnt my hand.”

Gini glanced back, feeling sick. Chantal had made the solution; Gini could see the small plastic bag of white powder, the blue of the gas jet, the little square of aluminum foil. One moment Chantai had the syringe in her shaking hand; the next it had dropped. Gini saw it roll across the floor and come to rest by the cat tray. She averted her eyes.

She heard Rowland pick it up, then the suck as it was filled.