Alleyn dropped the clip, first in one place and then in another. It glittered like a monstrously artificial flower on the dry earth. ‘Oh, well,’ he said, ‘let’s go and see Cookie.’

They passed through the gate that Florence had used that night and, like her, turned up the main track that led to the men’s quarters.

Long before they came within sight of their objective, they heard a high-pitched, raucous voice raised in the unmistakable periods of oratory. They passed the wool-shed and came within full view of the bunkhouse and annexe.

A group of a dozen men, some squatting on their heels, others leaning, relaxed, against the wall of the building, listened in silence to an empurpled man, dressed in dirty white, who stood on an overturned box and loudly exhorted them.

‘I howled unto the Lord,’ the orator bawled angrily. ‘That’s what I done. I howled unto the Lord.’

‘That’s Cookie,’ Fabian murmured, ‘in the penultimate stage of his cups. The third and last stage is delirium tremens. It’s a regular progression.’

‘…and the Lord said unto me: “What’s biting you, Perce?” And I answered and said: “Me sins lie bitter in me belly,” I says, “I’ve backslid,” I says, “and the grade’s too hot for me.” And the Lord said: “Give it another pop, Perce.” And I give it another pop and the Lord backed me up and I’m saved.’

Here the cook paused and, with extreme difficulty, executed a peculiar gesture, as if writing on the air. ‘The judgement’s writ clear on the wall,’ he shouted, ‘for them as aren’t too shickered to read it. It’s writ clear as it might be on that bloody bunk’ouse be’ind yer. And what does it say? It says in letters of flame: “Give it another pop.” Hallelujah.’

‘Hallelujah,’ echoed a small man who sat in an attitude of profound dejection on the annexe step. This was Albie Black, the rouseabout.