They ate in silence. Matilda felt strength return slowly. Their plates empty, they sat looking at each other across the table, sizing one another up.

Matilda saw a man of thirty-five, she knew his age from the radio. Large nose, large mouth, light brown hair, not fair as the papers said, brown eyes, thick eyebrows, stubbled face drawn with fatigue, good teeth, a few definite lines.

Hugh saw a woman in her fifties, blue eyes, very white hair, arched nose, good teeth, slightly runaway chin, sensual mouth.

‘You don’t look like a Major.’

‘They confused me with my brother; he is a Major. I expect he will be furious, bad for his image.’

‘Is he fighting Guerillas?’

‘He is actually. Why?’

‘Such a lot of fighting. I don’t approve.’

‘Pacifist?’

‘I just don’t like violence.’

‘I –’

‘You hit your mother. It may have been justified.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘The choice of weapon. A tea-tray. Really!’ Matilda began to laugh. ‘Oh dear, I’m drunk. So sorry. It’s the anticlimax. I was worked up, was all prepared – I was ready.’ Folly put her paws on Matilda’s knees and buried her face in her crotch sniffing deeply, pressing her jaw against Matilda’s thighs. She stroked the dog’s head.

‘Silky.’

Hugh Warner yawned.

‘I’ll show you where you sleep.’ Matilda stood up. ‘This way.’

He followed her upstairs.

‘Here’s your room, the loo, the bath. Sleep well.’ She left him abruptly. Folly followed her back to the kitchen.

Matilda poured the last of the wine and stood drinking it, trying to think. Her head was looping the loop. With tipsy care she cleared the table, washed up, put everything away, stoked the fire once more and tipped the ashes into the bin outside the back door. Followed by the dog she went upstairs, undressed and got into bed. Without hesitation the dog got up on the bed and settled, pressing into the small of her back. Matilda thought, I shall never sleep, I’m drunk, and fell asleep instantly, her mouth open, snoring.

Along the passage Hugh Warner soaked in a boiling bath, sat up and shaved, then ran in more hot water to soak again. He washed his hair, his hands, his feet, his whole exhausted body until finally, when the water cooled, he dried himself and crawled naked into the bed assigned him and lay listening to the night sounds.

A stream somewhere near.

Owls.

Traffic a long way off.

Snores. ‘Down the passage my hostess snores.’ Relaxed for the first time for weeks, he smiled. What folly. He turned on his side and slept.

Half an hour later Matilda sat up in bed screaming, soaked in sweat, trembling. Folly licked her face, wagging her tail.

‘He’s a murderer, a murderer, he murdered his mother.’ Speaking this aloud made it true. She shivered, the sweaty nightdress cooling to clamminess on her body.