Douglas stopped before the wheelchair.

‘Mr Quartermain,’ he said.

He pushed the plate out on the warm air into Quartermain’s hands.

At first the old man’s hands did not move. Then as if wakened, his fingers opened with surprise. Quartermain regarded the gift with utter bewilderment.

‘Thank you,’ he said, so low no one heard him. He touched a fragment of white frosting to his mouth.

Everyone was very quiet.

‘Criminy, Doug!’ Bo hissed as he pulled Doug away from the wheelchair. ‘Why’d you do that? Is it Armistice Day? You gonna let me rip off your epaulettes? Why’d you give that cake to that awful old gink?’

Because, Douglas thought but didn’t say, because, well, I could hear him breathe.

Chapter Thirty-One

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I’ve lost, thought Quartermain. I’ve lost the game. Check. Mate.

Bleak pushed Quartermain in his wheelchair, like a load of dried apricots and yellow wicker, around the block under the dying afternoon sun. He hated the tears that brimmed in his eyes.

‘My God!’ he cried. ‘What happened?’

Bleak said he wasn’t sure whether it was a significant loss or a small victory.

‘Don’t small victory me!’ Quartermain shouted.

‘All right,’ said Bleak. ‘I won’t.’

‘All of a sudden,’ said Quartermain, ‘in the boy’s—’

He stopped, for he could not breathe.

‘Face,’ he continued. ‘In the boy’s face.’ Quartermain touched his mouth with his hands to pull the words out. He had seen himself peer forth from the boy’s eyes, as if from an opened door. ‘How did I get in there, how?’

Bleak said nothing, but pushed Quartermain on through sun and shadow, quietly.

Quartermain did not touch the hand–wheels of his moving chair. He slumped, staring rigidly beyond the moving trees, the flowing white river of sidewalk.

‘What happened?’

‘If you don’t know,’ said Bleak, ‘I won’t tell you.’

‘I thought I’d defeated them. I thought I was mean and smart and clever. But I didn’t win.’

‘No,’ said Bleak.

‘I don’t understand. Everything was set up for me to win.’

‘You did them a favor. You made them put one foot in front of the other.’

‘Is that what I did? So it’s their victory.’

‘They might not know it, but yes. Every time you take a step, even when you don’t want to,’ said Bleak. ‘When it hurts, when it means you rub chins with death, or even if it means dying, that’s good. Anything that moves ahead, wins. No chess game was ever won by the player who sat for a lifetime thinking over his next move.’

Quartermain let himself be pushed another block in silence and then said: ‘Braling was a fool.’