Now where? he asked himself sharply. Ivan had swung into a side street which would lead him away from Bright’s; and as Beddoes turned the corner his heart sank. The road branched; and at the fork stood a small pub. If the meandering muzhik went in there, Beddoes decided, he would ask the landlord for use of the ’phone and would ring the Division. They could, they’d have to, send someone round while Ivan was swigging. He loafed along in Ivan’s wake. A white and tabby cat ran across the road and disappeared into the darkness of a bombed patch. There was a contractor’s board stuck inside its fence. Soon a sharp block of flats would rear abruptly over the old houses, which were smaller in this road, and darker. There was no one out but Ivan and himself; and Ivan was heading for the pub door.

Beddoes began a long systematic curse; then checked. Vacillating Vanya had thought better of it. He reeled down the road to the left of the pub, a road which marked a swing back towards Bright’s. Beddoes tagged on resignedly. He supposed he ought to be thankful that Ivan was too drunk to suspect he was followed, that he never happened to look behind him. Unaccountably, Beddoes felt the desire to look back himself. He did, carefully. Two men, shambling towards the pub. Another cat, streaking low to the ground. Nothing. Ahead, Vanya was developing quite a turn of speed. He was nearly at the end of the road, where Beddoes perceived railings and trees. What was that? A park? Gardens?

Ivan reached the corner and turned left; and from the right hurtled a soapbox on wheels, narrow tyreless rims clattering over the cracks of the pavement. Two bicycle lamps were fixed to the front. Power was provided by the energetic foot work of the small boy at the back, while his partner, the driver, was responsible for steering and simulating the noise of a piston engine in top gear. With a sound like the disgruntled meeow of a wild cat, he waved his hand up and down to signify that they were to stop. The contraption came to a standstill within an inch of Beddoes’ toes.

“Got the time, please, mister?” asked the driver, staring up at him.

“Time you were in bed,” observed Beddoes civilly, looking at his watch. “Twenty past ten.”

A gasp of horror met this information. “Thanks, mister. Come on, Tim,” said the driver, all in one breath.

Beddoes watched them dashing off. “You ought to have red lights on the back,” he called after them. “You’re breaking the law!”

Tim stopped the furious working of his feet, turned, cocked a finger-gun and emitted two sounds like steam escaping from a train. At which, Beddoes supposed with a smile, he ought to topple slowly to the ground, clutching his stomach and grimacing.