I threw the end of my Romeo y Julieta into the embers of the fire and cast a sort of husbandly look at Johanna. She raised an eyebrow shaped like a seagull’s wing. I winked. The telephone rang.

It was the Centenier. He thought I might like to know that there had been another rape. The wife of the tomato grower. Satanic trapping as before but with an addition: having knocked her unconscious with the same gentle punch, he had scribbled the word ‘secretary’ in greasepaint in a semi-circle on her bare belly, well below the navel.

‘Have you read the paper tonight?’ I asked.

‘I seen the photo of you, sir, but I ’aven’t what you might call perused the entire article, ’aving been called out on this case, eh?’

‘Take another look at the lady’s tummy,’ I said, ‘I think you’ll find the word is Sécaire.’

I rose wearily, feeling as old as sin.

‘Ah well,’ I sighed, ‘back to the grind.’

‘Oh good,’ said Johanna. ‘Race you to bed?’

‘I did not mean that.’

‘You were meaning it just now.’

‘Just now I was in early middle age. At this moment I feel ready for the Tom and Geriatric ward.’

‘All right, we’ll play patients and nurses: you shall chase me upstairs, but very slowly; to husband your strength.’

‘Oh, very well,’ I said.

My heart was not really in it but I appreciated the fact that she wanted to help. For some reason, you see, we can’t talk to each other properly.

14

Not utterly struck spiritless

For shame’s sake and unworthiness

Of these poor forceless hands that come

Empty, these lips that should be dumb,

This love whose seal can but impress

These weak word-offerings wearisome

Whose blessings have not strength to bless

Nor lightnings fire to burn up aught

Nor smite with thunders of their thought.

Epilogue

A hideous wailing penetrated my grimly dreams: I awoke shuddering. It was only Jock mounting the stairs with my tea-tray, singing ‘On the Good Ship Lollipop’ in his best falsetto. He does it rather well but there is a time and place for Shirley Temple.

‘This aubade or mattinata must not occur again, Jock. It hurts me in the liver. “Cursed is he who greets his brother with a loud voice in the morning” as Deuteronomy was so fond of pointing out.’

Vengefully, he allowed some tea to slop into my saucer as he handed it to me, then deliberately mopped it up with a well-ripened pocket-handkerchief. Game, set and match to him. The tea, when I could bring myself to sample it, tasted like waters of Babylon which had been too freely wept in.

‘How is the canary this morning?’

‘Got a bad leg.’

‘Then summon the best vet money can buy, spare no expense. A Mr Blampied is well spoken of.’

‘He’s bin. Said the leg’ll ’ave to come orf.’