The room was crowded with enough antique junk to have enabled Braithwaite to open a shop on Portobello Road. A long cobra coiled on a low coffee table raised its hooded head to glare at the Scorpion with its unblinking gaze. Braithwaite hurried over and affectionately picked up the snake. He stroked the head with his finger.

“Naughty Zahabi … Nicky’s our friend, isn’t he?” the old man clucked. “If my baby’s hungry, he should have let D-D-Daddy know,” he cooed and placed the snake next to a saucer of milk by its reed basket. He came over to the threadbare divan where the Scorpion was sitting and began fussing over his wounds.

“D-d-don’t mind Zahabi. He’s just c-c-curious about strangers,” Braithwaite said, his false teeth rattling like a metal chain.

“I’m glad to hear it,” the Scorpion said, wincing as Braithwaite bandaged his neck. When he finished, Braithwaite brought out a bottle of cheap Scotch and filled two glasses. One of the glasses had a chipped decal of the Queen that read “25th Jubilee British Railways SR” in white letters.

“Cheerio, lad,” Braithwaite said.

“Cheers.”

Braithwaite leaned forward, his kohl-accented eyes shiny with concern. In the corner, the cobra’s long tongue fastidiously lapped at the milk, its tail wagging like that of a cat.

“What h-h-happened, lad?”

“I almost died of snakebite,” the Scorpion said, using an old Beduin expression for treachery.

“Now, now. You’ll hurt Zahabi’s feelings,” Braithwaite said winsomely, then turned towards the cobra. “Nicky didn’t mean you, p-p-precious,” he told the snake.

“It was a setup,” the Scorpion said.

“P-p-perhaps you were spotted. It’s been known.”

“I wasn’t spotted,” the Scorpion declared flatly. “Give me some credit.”

“Of course you weren’t,” Braithwaite said placatingly, implying that of course he was. For a long moment they sipped their drinks.

“Why’d you do it, Ralph?” the Scorpion asked quietly.

“I d-d-don’t know what you mean, lad,” Braithwaite said, glancing nervously at the door. The Scorpion slammed his drink down, sloshing whisky on to the coffee table.

“For God’s sake, Ralph! There’s no time to play footsie. They’re after me. I’ve got to get off the island.”

“What makes you think it was me?” Braithwaite blustered.

“They knew who I was. They called me ‘Shaw,’ for Chrissakes. The only ones who knew me were al-Amir and you and he could have arrested me any time he wanted. It was you, Ralph. Just you.”

“Oh Nicky,” Braithwaite shook his head sadly and gulped his drink, his hand trembling with what could have been the palsy of age, or just fear.

“Who were you all tricked out for, Ralph? It wasn’t me.”

Braithwaite straightened his thaub self-consciously, with the fussy mannerisms of an old bachelor who has lived alone for too long.

“It’s no one, Nicky. R-r-really.”