‘I’ll come with you!’ he says suddenly, driven by an impulse he does not understand.

‘No,’ says Christopher, and goes for good.

‘Why not?’ asks Martin fearfully.

But Christopher merely walks away.

Martin is left in the glaring corridor. He does not attempt to follow. He is tasting the insult. It tastes bitter, and he works up his anger: What a smug fellow! Martin sends a dirty look after the retreating back. It is tired and strained as if it has borne many burdens. Christopher’s face was strained and tense too, as if after many sleepless nights. What are they up to? They ought to sleep instead.

In any case they could leave you alone, especially when you’ve done them no harm.

Martin watches Christopher go, the insult swelling inside him like a tumour.

Then he opens his eyes wide.

Christopher is walking towards the dusk, on his way to another episode in his tiring round. But now he is to go no further; his time has come. He is close to the wall, and all of a sudden Martin sees an arm shoot out from a recess. Then several arms. Christopher is dragged into the recess and disappears. The whole passageway is empty and quiet as before. It happened without a sound. The storm is raging through the house. Where is Christopher? Soon he will be inside the gliding van.

‘No, no!’ says Martin automatically, quite numb. He turns and stumbles away as quickly as he can, back to the first side passage. From there he goes into other alleyways. The arrow corridors are like a death-walk; he scurries across them and hides himself in the darkness on the other side again.

No, no, he thinks.

That was close….

If I had gone with him, as I said I would, it would have happened to me too. Because I was in his company.

He is numb.

No, no.

Never again.

Why should I ever come out here again?

A voice inside him says: You wouldn’t have gone with Christopher. If he had been willing, you would have funked it. You’re quite safe wherever you go; nothing will happen to you…. But he will not listen; the shock is hammering inside him.

That was a close thing, he thinks stubbornly.

He is not listening to the cracking or to anything else. He has arrived at the side passage that leads to his room. He will feel relieved when he slips in through the door.

No, no, he thinks. Just let me get home and shut it all out.

Everything is quiet. Nobody in sight. But he knows he is being watched now and then. He goes in great haste.

There is his door. He puts the key in the lock. Everything is oiled and nothing will squeak. He turns it back as many times as he can. His room has not been touched.

He hurries into the recesses in the walls.

That was a close thing, he thinks as he sits down. What did I want to do that for? Never again. I have other things to do.