“In the full knowledge of the authorities, no doubt. And all part of the Cooper business empire. Your mother said we hold special import licences. One day I shall be very rich.”

Charlie’s eyes offer Thomas a share of his dark-cheeked indignation, but Thomas will have none of it. He is not interested in the Coopers’ stake in horticulture; stands unmoved, or removed rather, still separated by the fog of his own thoughts.

Killer, he thinks. Blood brother.

The proverb’s right: the apple does not fall far.

Apples, falling. Isaac Newton: built a bridge without nails. Now they bring Germans over to build our sewers, Sebastian said. Ash-Town. Taylor, Ashton and some made-up Sons.

Father.

That piss was good, Thomas thinks. And you are a coward, a coward, wallowing in pity. He moves back into the staircase doorway, hooks his left arm into its frame, and wrenches his shoulder back into its socket.

ф

There is a room that leads off one end of the distillation chamber. A smaller room, boxlike and mould-walled, where a row of workbenches stand bolted to the floor. It is here that Thomas walks his sense of isolation; stands and studies it with self-absorbed patience.

Three workbenches, each with two work places. Each place marked by an oak stool and a little machine, screwed into the table’s wood, combining the features of a sewing machine and a pencil sharpener. Six stools in total, plus a chair for the supervisor, at three yards’ remove and upholstered in bottle-green leather. On the wall, like so many hats or umbrellas, hang six respirators from numbered metal hooks. Tan, well-worn rubber, each snout ending in a chunky, perforated filter, smeared with Soot. Thomas stares at these then sits down at a work place; turns the little wheel of one machine and works out its purpose. Around him, at the wall, stand small kegs of Soot each labelled with a quality sign, ranging from Alpha++ to Gamma —. At the centre of the workbench stands a box full of little squares of cigarette papers; next to it a similar box, somewhat larger, holds a supply of ordinary tobacco. A pipette completes the sets of tools and materials provided for each worker.

Mechanically, holding at bay both thought and emotion, Thomas threads a piece of paper into the machine, fetches a pinch of Soot from one of the barrels, mixes it with tobacco and begins to roll a cigarette. Halfway through the process he takes up the pipette; looks back through the doorway to the rack of solvents Livia has discovered; pictures spreading the sticky liquid into the mix of tobacco and Soot to make it ready for consumption.