‘Serves you right,’ muttered Cook. ‘It’s just too bad. The same will happen to you and me. Just too bad …’

In the course of the last few minutes – that is, ever since we had stopped to rest on the rocky islet – he seemed to have grown larger, had swelled, and there was now something mocking and dangerous about him. Gregson took off his sun helmet and, pulling out a dirty handkerchief, wiped his forehead, which was orange over the brows, and white above that. Then he put on his helmet again, leaned over to me, and said, ‘Pull yourself together, please’ (or words to that effect). ‘We shall try to move on. The vapor is hiding the hills, but they are there. I am certain we have covered about half the swamp.’ (This is all very approximate.)

‘Murderer,’ said Cook under his breath. The tattoo was now again on his forearm; not the entire glass, though, but one side of it – there was not quite enough room for the remainder, which quivered in space, casting reflections. ‘Murderer,’ Cook repeated with satisfaction, raising his inflamed eyes. ‘I told you we would get stuck here. Black dogs eat too much carrion. Mi, re, fa, sol.’

‘He’s a clown,’ I softly informed Gregson, ‘a Shakespearean clown.’

‘Clow, clow, clow,’ Gregson answered, ‘clow, clow – clo, clo, clo … Do you hear?’ he went on, shouting in my ear. ‘You must get up. We have to move on.’

The rock was as white and as soft as a bed. I raised myself a little, but promptly fell back on the pillow.

‘We shall have to carry him,’ said Gregson’s faraway voice. ‘Give me a hand.’

‘Fiddlesticks,’ replied Cook (or so it sounded to me). ‘I suggest we enjoy some fresh meat before he dries up. Fa, sol, mi, re.’

‘He’s sick, he’s sick too,’ I cried to Gregson. ‘You’re here with two lunatics. Go ahead alone. You’ll make it … Go.’

‘Fat chance we’ll let him go,’ said Cook.