Because it was spring rain, there was, behind the premature twilight, the sense of something warmer and brighter, and as Calley reached the last steps and came out on to the quay, a low yellow light broke from between the buildings to his right, and where it settled on things they acquired a curious fragility, as if buildings, ships’ masts, a dray loaded with shining barrels, were only leaning into existence for a moment and would, shortly, lean out again, back into what was formless, into chaos.

He looked for Medina. He did not want to stand around on the quay while everyone got a good squint at him. Then his eye was drawn to a patch of colour by the wall of the pub, a yellow umbrella, a black man beneath it wearing a curious sort of hat, and next to him, sharing the shelter of the umbrella, was the Spaniard. Calley tilted his head and Medina crossed to him.

“He was there?”

“No.”

“No?”

“He’s fucked off.”

“In English, please.”

“He’s gone. North.”

“He knew we were coming.”

“He knew nothing. Knows nothing.”

“Then why has he gone?”

“He’s running. But not from us.”

“Someone has warned him.”

“No one has warned him. Who the fuck could warn him?”

“The same who sent us?”

“And why would they do that? Eh?”

Medina shrugged.

“Who’s your new boyfriend?” asked Calley.

“My . . . ?”

“The cunt with the boat on his head.”

“An actor. A storyteller.”

“Yeah?” Calley looked more closely at the man. He liked stories. Up on Saffron Hill, at the spike, stories were scraps of coloured cotton you pieced together in the dark. If you pieced together enough the world whispered to you.

“So now,” said Medina, “we have to go to the north. Where I suppose there will be snow.”

“Snow, icebergs. All sorts,” said Calley. “End of the fucking world.”

By one in the morning, the rain gone, the clouds gone, a cold sky rippling with stars, they reached the old ferry crossing on the Severn at Aust. Their quarry had taken ship but Calley, who did not much like horses, cared for boats even less. A ferry he could manage, and yes, a ship when he had no choice. But a ship, overhauled, was a trap. Where could you go? He could not swim and would rather hang than drown. So they would travel overland, keep clear of great roads, enter towns and cities only when they had to. They would lose a day or two but they could trust to their own strength rather than the vagaries of wind and tide. It was the way of the stalker, the beater. It was the hidden way. It was the correct way for infantry to advance.