The barmaid stared stonily at him and made no move. “I don’t think you’d better have any more, sir,” she said in a flat way, making it a statement rather than a recommendation.

Ivan simply waited, as if he hadn’t heard, gaping at the glass. Since he appeared quiescent, at least for the moment, the barmaid busied herself elsewhere. But Beddoes saw that her move was designed to establish relations with potential assistants. Having fetched something which she kept under the counter to a position by the three men, she leaned across and touched Joe’s arm.

“You going to have one of my raffle tickets, Mr. Pearce?” she asked heavily.

“Raffle tickets, my dear?” Joe turned with an almost courtly inclination. “What for?”

“First prize, hamper and five pounds, second, turkey and bottle of whisky, third—”

“No, no, Daphne, I meant, what’s the charitable object?”

“Same as usual—Dr. Barnardo’s.”

“Ah. Yes, I don’t mind a couple, Daphne.”

The maid lifted out the things she had brought from further along the counter; a book of tickets and a large silver and blue cardboard egg.

Nut-face laughed. “Bit early, Daff? Goin’ a raffle the egg too?”

She was still forming her slow reply as Ivan lurched round, staring.

“I ain’t got it,” he squeaked.

It came as a shock to Beddoes, to hear a prosaic whine issue from Ivan, instead of elegantly broken English or fluent Russian as he’d irrationally expected.

There was a pause. The mantle of authority fell quite naturally on Joe.

“Ain’t got what, old cock?” he rumbled, his fruity bass at once firm and soothing.

Ivan was silent. His eyes passed hazily from one face to the next. Beddoes met him with indifference. Ivan shook his head and turned back to the counter. He extended a shaking hand for his expected drink, the money for which lay where he had left it.

“Go on, Daff,” Nut-face urged the hesitant barmaid. “One more can’t do no ’arm.” He grimaced and winked behind Ivan’s back to indicate that he, personally, would insure that it should not.

“’Ere, mate,” said Joe magisterially, nodding support to Daphne, “’ave one with us. One more on me, eh boys? An’ we’ll make that the lot. Same agen, please, Daphne. An’ what’s yours, chummy? Chirrup an twitter?”

For all his fuddled condition Ivan realised quickly that he was being offered a drink. He managed to collect his money and put it back in his pocket without dropping it, then edged along the counter to attach himself to the main party. Whether he intended to comply with Joe’s cunningly inclusive admonition that this drink was to be the last, or had even understood it, Beddoes doubted. But the ruse had succeeded in so far as it had lured Ivan to a position from which the three guardians of the pub’s peace could at least try to sweep him out the easier way, in a general comradely exit. And Ivan was suddenly very anxious to be comradely, either because to stand him a drink was to make him a friend, or, as it seemed to Beddoes, because he found something in the three men to reassure him. He seized his beer and gulped some down, as though aware that if he didn’t reduce the level quickly the shaking of his hands might cause wastage. His face became animated, although the direction of his eyes remained unsure. He even attempted a feeble grin. He opened his mouth.