‘D’you think our Mr Antoine could do my hair like that, Mum?’ the girl urged.

‘Don’t see why not, dear. You ask him when we get home. He’ll charge, mind.’

‘Oh I don’t mind.’

Matilda stood idly watching the man talking and pointing to the weather chart which had circles all over it in which were written ‘High’. Up the street she heard the husband say to his wife, ‘Bring back hanging, that’s what they ought to do.’

‘Hanging isn’t good enough, Dad.’

‘Got to catch him first, haven’t they? Shouldn’t be difficult with that great hooter.’

Matilda turned back down the street remembering a pub which was relatively quiet. She would sit there and rest.

At a corner shop she bought a paper and strolled along entertaining speculations of that tired child grown up murdering his dreary mother at some future date. Why not? Children like that, perfectly commonplace children, became Guerillas and shot people.

Finding the pub with an unoccupied seat outside she ordered a whisky, sat down to wait and read her paper.

The paper was not one she was used to. She read an article on fashion, another on diet, an account of a footballer’s divorce, several accounts of rail, motor and plane crashes, a new earth tremor in Guatemala. On the last page but one the usual photograph of the Matricide, now supposed to have reached Japan. He did not, Matilda thought, seem to have such a very huge nose, nothing out of the ordinary, not much larger than Tom’s. The photograph could be anybody. She sipped her whisky, looked at her watch. Still early. A lot of people about, a lot of time to creep by.

Poor man. She looked at the photograph. The country was full of large noses, large cocks too. ‘My God, I feel tired,’ Matilda muttered, not even hungry, too tired to eat. What frightful waste of Brie. Mustn’t get drunk, she thought, but one more whisky won’t hurt me.

She took her empty glass to the bar. As she waited to be served she observed the people sitting round the tables or standing talking. She listened to the topics of conversation. A group of three men and a pretty girl were discussing a couple called Jeffrey and Sally. Sally had upped and left Jeffrey and gone to Ibiza with Johnnie, whose wife Vanessa had moved in with Chris.

‘Which Vanessa?’ asked one of the men.

‘The dark one, you know her, the one they call the Dark Filly.’

Everybody laughed and chorused, ‘Oh, that Vanessa,’ understandingly.

‘But what about Sally when she comes back?’

‘She hasn’t a leg to stand on. She’s been having it off with Charles for a year, everybody knows that.’

‘But Chris doesn’t.’

‘No, Chris doesn’t.’

‘They only mind about the money. There aren’t any kids.’