I slipped out of the front gate and headed up the road, away from them. It was true: they were following me. I went into my usual paper shop. Outside, the men were waiting in the car. When I continued on my way, they followed me. Who were these men who followed other men?

I knew the streets. Under the railway line, beside the bus garage, was a narrow alleyway through which, years ago, I’d walked the children to school. I turned into it and ran; they couldn’t follow me in the car.

Of course, they wanted me badly and were waiting at the top of the alley. This wasn’t the death I wanted. I walked quickly. Farther down the street the three of them got out of the car and stood around me. Their faces were close; I could smell their aftershave. There were a lot of people on the street.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll find out.”

Another of them murmured, “I’ve got a gun.”

One of them had put his hand on my arm. It riled me; I don’t like being held against my will. Yet I gained confidence; the gun, if it was really a gun, had helped me. I didn’t believe they’d shoot me. The last thing they’d want to do was blow up my body.

I started to shout, “Help me! Help me!”

As people turned to look, the men tried to pull me into the car, but I kicked and hit out. I heard a police siren. One of the men panicked. People were looking. I was away, and running through the closely packed market stalls. The three of them weren’t going to chase me with guns through the crowd on market day.

As soon as I could, I rang Ralph’s mobile from a phone box.

It was impossible for us to meet. He was “up to his neck in literature.” Unfortunately for him, the fool had already told me where he was.

Half an hour later, I pushed open the pub door and entered. I’m a sentimentalist and want always for there to be the quiet interminability of a London pub in the afternoon, rough men playing pool, others just sitting in near silence, smoking. I couldn’t see Ralph, but did notice a sign that said “Theatre and Toilets.” I tripped down some narrow stairs into an oppressive, dank-smelling room, painted black. There were old cinema seats and, in one corner, a box office the size of a cupboard. Pillars seemed to obstruct every clear view of the tiny stage. I saw from the posters that they were doing productions of The Glass Menagerie and Dorian Gray.