Charles did not think of himself as a coward. Since reaching adult life he had not actually been involved in a fight, but he had always imagined that if it ever came he would give a good account of himself. But then he had imagined it differently. His mental picture had been of a clear space, two men facing each other, fists whirling and plenty of light to see by. Not of a dark doorway with his arms crushed against his sides, a vile breath forcing its way up his nostrils, and a knuckle-duster held against his throat.

‘Go back where yer bloody came from,’ advised the bald-headed man earnestly. ‘Yer won’t last a week from now if yer don’t.’

The door of Harry’s opened.

‘Keep still,’ and the knuckle-duster in the throat again.

It was Ern. Glancing neither to right nor left, he stood for a moment outside Harry’s, then began to walk with an even pace, towards and past them. Charles’s heart stopped beating, from sheer disappointment and fear. Then, when Ern was exactly in the right spot, he slid his arm, still without looking, round the bald man’s face, forcing his head back viciously. The bald man could either let go of Charles’s coat and let himself be dragged back­wards, or have his neck broken. He let go. Ern still did not look at him.

The bald man suddenly spun round in a violent twist, flailing his fist through the air. He wanted to smash the knuckle-duster into the back of Ern’s head. In the same instant Ern crouched and drove his shoulder into the bald man’s stomach. Their combined weight and impetus sank the shoulder sickeningly far in, and the bald man hung tottering, winded. His stomach muscles were contracted with the agony into a mass of iron; he could not even retch. Ern’s fist smashed into his face. He fell down.

Charles moved out of the doorway, shivering. He wanted to go, to be somewhere where they could sit down and be quiet. Ern was nearly ready to move off, but he had not quite finished with the bald man yet. Stepping over to where the knuckle-duster gleamed palely on the outstretched right fist, he stamped on it with his heavy boot.

As they walked away, Ern said calmly, ‘He’d better get that dooster off quick if he wants it off in the next week or so. Before that ’and swells up good and proper.’

Charles did not say anything.

‘And so, for our first meeting of the winter session,’ said June Veeber’s bell-like voice, making the words sound like an invita­tion to some kind of orgy, ‘we welcome Mr. Froulish, who will read extracts from his Work in Progress.’

She sat down. George Hutchins jammed his chair against hers and surreptitiously took her hand under cover of a newspaper.