‘Just go towards the church,’ said the van man, whom Rene had never liked enough to name aloud. ‘Glad to get a bit of time to yourself. See some new faces.’

‘Yes.’

Rachaela got out, her heavy bag, holding all necessities, on her shoulder. She stood bewildered in the street as the blue van closed like a clam and made off up the road. ‘Well she was a funny one.’

‘Not much to say for herself.’

‘Close-mouthed bit.’

‘I could just eat a bit of silverside.’

‘Fishfingers.’

The plan was straightforward. To reach this town, and from here to retreat to London. There was nothing to stay for, everything to avoid. It was true that London posed problems, for nothing was secure there, no flat, no job, money in a state of levitation. But it was what she knew. It was away from the Scarabae.

She had been crazy to come anywhere near them.

And the first part of the plan had worked better than hoped for. For the van driver might have refused her, or Cheta and Carlo seized her like warders.

So, she was free.

Free, and here.

Rachaela felt agoraphobic, almost afraid. The street, the town, were now alien. She had been shut up so long in the coloured dark of the house, only the sea and the heath for exercise.

The street was long, and over its sides crowded other roofs going uphill.

People hurried by with baskets and carriers and prams. Cars drove to and fro.

There was a sensation of movement in all directions, as if the ground shifted underfoot.

It would be incredibly stupid to be influenced by any of that.

Rachaela began to walk towards the tower of the cathedral or church.

There were shops, and crowds on the pavement. A child screamed and a chocolate bar went skidding by her foot. ‘Sammy I told you!’

The street turned and gave on another. The tower canted aside. It was on the left now, and no route through.

Rachaela nerved herself. She must ask the way. At the centre of the town information would be available.

‘Excuse me. How do I reach the church from here?’

The woman looked at her as if she were an imbecile. ‘Just go down there and then across and up.’

‘Thank you.’

Rachaela crossed the road and took to a tiny alley. The crowd pushed up the alley against her, overtaking her. A minuscule post office offered picture postcards of the town. Two or three off-season visitors pondered the cards, congesting the alley further.

Rachael emerged. There was a zebra-crossing and a street running uphill. The tower and pieces of the church roof appeared over houses.

The crowd wandered, and shoved.

‘And I said to him you’ll have to hang it.’

‘What does he expect.’

Unlike the van people, the town had its accent. Perhaps Rene and the beef-fancier had lived here years, still ostracized as foreigners.