In the dark Wavery heard a cry. The cry came from the direction of Monte Hacho, harsh and raw nerved. He had heard the same cry above his terrace.

“Kay, kay kay.”

In the kiosk the telephone began ringing. There was no one to answer it but him. Wavery ignored its appeal. He walked home. He could still hear the telephone’s bleat as he entered his upturned key in the lock and opened the paint-sticky door and pressed a black finger on the switch in the hall and furiously cursed whichever of his workmen had removed the overhead bulb so that he had to shuffle in half-inches through the sharp-cornered packing cases, the signed photographs, the canvases against the wall on which his wife had brushed her white-dotted haloes, her mongoloid Christs and the levitations of her headless husbands.

7

Penny had left in the early hours, taking from their Fulham flat her small overnight bag and his white shirt.

Wavery felt his wife get out of bed. He felt a pause in the air above him. He opened his eyes. She reached down a hand and touched his arm. He closed his eyes and heard the hurried steps down the stairs and a door slam into the street and the car start. He went downstairs and locked the front door. He walked back to bed, looking into the sitting room and his study.

One of her sayings had been, “When you leave, it’s because you’ve already left.”

At ten Wavery was received by Cullis and half an hour later he left the Ambassadors’ Entrance. In less than twenty-four hours his meticulous world had been turned on its head. He considered resigning but had the sense to understand he was in no frame of mind to make such a decision. He had been caught with every pair of trousers down. This is what his interview with Cullis had revealed. Also something else. Absolutely unforeseen, he had fallen in love.

He spent two nights in the empty flat, and then on Thursday he did what he had promised earlier in the week he would never do. He telephoned Catharine.

A girl answered.

“Is Catharine there?”

“Who is it?”

In the background Brahms was playing.

“Daddy, it’s Bob Hope,” cried the child.

A man’s voice, concerned, said, “Hello, can I help?”

Wavery gave his name.

“Why did you say Bob Hope?”

“A joke,” said Wavery.

“Thomas Wavery. That rings a bell.”

“We met in Lima.”

“Lima?”

“At the Tennysons. Denver and Rita Tennyson.”

“I remember.”

“We didn’t get a chance much to talk.”

“He was King Kong. Who were you?”

“Is Catharine there?”

“No. She’s not here. Samantha, turn that down – hello? She’s gone off somewhere. One of her girlfriends. She’s not expected back till Saturday.”

On the line there was static and in the distance a voice spoke in a foreign language.

“Hello? Hello?”

Wavery said, “I’m still here.”

“Well, anyway. I’ll tell her you rang. Any message was there?”