“They thought they were safe,” he’d said. “They weren’t, you see. Now they’ll never see Warley again.”

I’d switched the light on. “Time for bed,” I said.

I could still see his smile. “Sorry about the crash, Daddy.”

“You’re not, but it doesn’t matter.”

He’d not played with the railway again. And what I’d said was true enough; it didn’t matter. But that night we’d lost something. I took my hand from my mouth. The pain had gone. But I could still see the big silver diesel crashing at the bend, still see Harry’s smile.

Kensington High Street seemed deserted; I wondered gloom­ily where everyone went to at night. When I was younger there always seemed to be a lot of people about; now there were only cars. When you came close to them you saw there was always someone in the driving-seat; but it wouldn’t always be so. One day they’d drive themselves, without passengers, to whatever des­tination cars choose for themselves and we’d all hide indoors waiting for them to pass. But they’d never stop passing; it was like watching Chinese march by.

The taxi turned off to the left past Olympia into a district of greengrocers and laundries and dry-cleaners and florists then sharply right into a long street of three-storey terrace houses, then sharply left into the mews where Jean lived.

“Know where your number is, sir?” the taxi driver asked.

“I’ll soon find it,” I said, and paid him off.

I didn’t: the numbers ran in no regular order, and I walked round the whole square, or rather oblong, before I found 14a tucked away in a little alley next to 23. The alley was cobbled and lit by a Victorian gas-lamp on the wall. There was an electric bulb inside the lamp, but the wattage was low enough for it not to appear too glaring. The door had been newly painted pale yellow and the brass knob had been newly polished; I smelled money. I pressed the bell.

The young man who answered the door was more than a little drunk.

“There’s nobody at home,” he said thickly, pushing long black hair out of his eyes.

“This is Jean Velfrey’s, isn’t it?”

He swayed and recovered himself by putting a hand out against the wall. Looking at him more closely I saw that he wasn’t quite as young as I’d first supposed; nearer forty than thirty, in fact.

He scowled at me. “You’ll know me again, won’t you, mate?”

There was an oak chest beside me with a pile of coats on it; I added mine to the pile. I didn’t need to ask him again whether Jean lived here; I recognized the framed playbills.

“Through that door?” I asked him.