He was crying now. I suppose I should have comforted him, but someone might have walked in.

‘Oh God,’ he said, blowing his nose. ‘Red eyes and a red nose to add to all my other problems.’ He looked at himself in the windowpane, reflected against the darkening sky. ‘I used to be known for my complexion, you know. Like the lady in the Camay advert. Now look at me.’

He took a compact out of his tunic pocket, and dabbed a little powder on his face.

‘Stephen! For Christ’s sake!’

‘I’ve shocked you.’ He snapped the compact shut, put it away. ‘Don’t worry. Your little secret’s safe with me. You keep hiding, you’ll be fine. You can hide for the rest of your life.’

‘And I suppose your way is better, is it? Lonely, unhappy, with no future to look forward to?’

‘Au contraire, my dear, I look forward to the future very much indeed.’ He smoothed down his eyebrows, adjusted his dress. ‘Times are changing, in case you don’t read the papers. The world is turning. Our world. They can’t keep us down forever. One day we’ll be able to live free and open.’

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ I said, but my heart was hammering in my chest, making my voice tremble, betraying me.

‘And when that day comes I’m going to be ready for it. Are you?’

He ran down the stairs with a lighter tread.

‘Hey, hey, hey, look at this!’

Wright burst into my office this morning with a movie magazine in his hand.

‘I don’t want to look at Diana Dors’s tits at this time of day, thank you very much.’

‘No, dummkopf. Look, here.’

He slammed the magazine down on top of my ledgers. There was a quarter-page ad circled in red pen.

ACTOR WANTED

Athletic young actor sought, age 20 to 25, over 5’8”, chest normal 45”, handsome and capable of performing acrobatic and dangerous feats, to play Hercules in a film to be shot later this year. The applicant must be able to speak perfect English. Send letter and photograph.

‘It’s me, isn’t it? Mervyn Wright is Hercules!’

‘I thought Steve Reeves was Hercules.’

‘Yeah, but I’ll be the British one. Come on, we’ve got to send them those pictures.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Course I am.’

‘You can’t just bugger off and become a film star.’

‘Why not?’

‘In case it had escaped your attention, you’ve got another year and a half of National Service to do.’

‘I’ll get out of it.’

This was starting to sound familiar. In fact, the whole of Reville buzzes with the latest ideas about how to get out. Stephen’s, on the whole, is the most practical.

‘Don’t talk daft.’

‘I mean it, Mike. I’ll do anything. Think of it. The cars, the birds, the lovely, lovely money.’

‘It’s probably some little studio in Soho turning out blue movies.’

‘Bollocks. You’re jealous.’

‘Oh yeah? Of what?’

‘You don’t want me to leave here and become a star.’