John swung his leg over the crossbar, settled on the saddle without thinking, pressing down on the pedals. He had to push her from his mind, understand that he had lost her, know there was no return. His mouth tasted sour, his limbs felt limp. He’d better keep this meeting, but it would be the last. He checked with one hand that his notebook was in the inside pocket of his jacket, and turned out of Soho Square, cycling down Charing Cross Road, passing the theatres, quiet now the plays had started, boisterous when the performances were over, trying to keep his mind off Betty. Trafalgar, the Strand, Waterloo Bridge, left into Stamford Street. It had been bombed in the war, ignored by the Festival of Britain. Large parts of it were still derelict and the street lighting was haphazard and low. It was eerie at night. No houses, nothing homely, just industrial buildings and bomb sites barricaded with corrugated iron fences. A rat ran across the road, skittered through the railings down to an empty area. This route was the quickest way to Borough but it always made him uneasy, as if the shadows themselves were made of evil and the wind through the empty ruins screamed of betrayal.

He propped his bike against the railings and walked to The George. A man was loitering outside, leaning against a lamp post, reading the London Evening Standard under the light. John knew who he was, knew to ignore him. The lookout, making sure John wasn’t being followed, that the GRU weren’t on his tail. The street may have been empty but the pub was crowded, its courtyard full of drinkers, most of them, John guessed, porters from the market, or railway workers from London Bridge. He made his way to the taproom. Norman was sitting in the far corner, gabardine raincoat unbuttoned, trilby on the table next to a half-drunk pint of bitter. If you wanted to look like a copper, John thought, you couldn’t try harder. Special Branch. A cigarette rested on the edge of an ashtray, smoke unfurling into the haze. He was doing the crossword, the paper folded into four, while he chewed on a stub of a pencil. John watched for a moment as he filled in a clue and stuck the pencil behind his ear.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ John said. ‘I got waylaid.’

‘I’ve kept myself busy,’ Norman said, squeezing himself free of his chair. ‘What can I get you? A pint of the best?’

‘Thank you.’ Norman was the price John had to pay. He was a pleasant enough man, lived in Sidcup, so he said, with his wife and two children, the youngest of whom had passed the eleven-plus and had just started at the grammar school.

‘Pity you don’t live our way,’ Norman had said. ‘Could keep an eye on him.’

‘He’ll be fine, Norman.’