‘Right,’ said George. ‘Here’s the plan. Since these idiots will not let us lie up in their houses we shall have to patrol outside their houses – from now until midnight. I shall move between Hautes Croix and this house; Jock will drop Sam at La Sergenté from where he will make his way to St Magloire’s Manor and so, past Canberra House, back here; Jock himself, since both Sonia and Johanna are alone and unguarded, will work between Wutherings and Les Cherche-fuites; you, Charlie, will cover the lanes between here and Belle Etoile Bay. None of us will use metalled roads. Any questions?’

There weren’t any questions.

15

There the gladiator, pale for thy pleasure,

Drew bitter and perilous breath;

There torments laid hold on the treasure

Of limbs too delicious for death;

When thy gardens were lit with live torches;

When the world was a steed for thy rein;

When the nations lay prone in thy porches,

Our Lady of Pain.

Dolores

A cold coming I had of it, I don’t mind telling you, just the worst time of the year for a vigilante patrol. I believe I’ve already given you my views about the month of May in the British Isles. This May night, as I picked my glum way down to Belle Etoile Bay, was cold and black as a schoolgirl’s heart and the moon – in its last quarter and now quite devoid of the spirit of public service – reminded me only of a Maria Teresa silver dollar which I had once seen clenched between the buttocks of a Somali lady who was, I fancy, no better than she should be. But enough of that.

Down I stole to Belle Etoile Bay. The sea breathed hoarsely, like a rapist out of training. Back I stole, breathing like a middle-aged vigilante who has neither pocket-flask nor sandwich-case about him because his wife isn’t speaking to him. As I entered Chestnut Lane (La Rue des Châtaigniers), nearing the end of my beat for the first time round, a châtaignier or chestnut tree quietly divided itself into two châtaigniers or chestnut trees and one of the component parts drifted in my direction. I am often asked what to do when things of this kind happen to you and I always divided my advice into several alternative parts; viz, either

a. blubber, or

b. run, or

c. drop on to your marrow-bones and beg for mercy.

If, of course, you belonged, as I did, to an absurd Special Something Unit in the war – yes, that 1939-45 one – then you can do better. What I did was to drop silently to the ground and roll over several times. This accomplished, I plucked out my pistol and waited. The tree-person froze. After a long time he spoke.