‘You don’t know shit, you look like shit, you’re talking shit.’ Again, precise, resigned to what she was saying. There were signs of old bruises about her throat. Was it likely that she was throttled on a regular basis? Maybe it was some sexual thing? It was as if she had Tourette’s or something. There was a sense of harm about her, of harm that was done to her rather than what she’d do to others. But he couldn’t let this go, could he? Every character he’d played before, especially he himself, the real him, would have shrugged this off, but this one—

He made his decision and stepped into her space. ‘Are you asking for a beating?’

She closed her eyes, her teeth bared, wincing, preparing herself to be hurt. She took no pleasure in that anticipation, like some people Sefton had met, facing the prospect with a sort of grim determination. He saw that one tooth in two was missing, that there was weird bronze stuff screwed into some places there. She broadcast dental pain. When it was clear that he was hesitating, she spoke again. ‘You know what wog stands for? Westernized Oriental Gentleman. That’s what they say. That’s what you are.’

‘Oriental?’

Beardy tried to step between them. ‘Listen, I think I know what you’re doing. We all find our own path to studying the ways of London, but—’

Sefton let his body react. With a straight arm, he pushed beardy back. This was between her and him.

She opened her eyes, and now her gaze was dancing over his face, taking him in as she spoke quickly under her breath. ‘Cockney rhyming slang: Berkshire Hunt, cunt. It should be “bark” for “Berkshire”, but the meaning is only conveyed if you change the pronunciation.’ It was as if she was reciting something to herself, a mantra or a prayer, while expecting to be beaten. If you didn’t count the words, everything in her body language was pleading with him not to hurt her. What sort of character was he playing, who couldn’t rise above it?

‘You’re a fucking berk,’ he said. Which was slight. Not enough.

She let out a long, relieved breath.

‘I think she’s dedicated her speech to breaking off her every social relationship,’ said beardy waistcoat. ‘It’s a sort of sacrifice. I’ve read about—’

‘Fuck you,’ said the woman, mildly, and then nodded to Sefton. ‘And you and all, you fucking flid fucking nigger fucking twat.’

He let himself make understanding eye contact with her. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘How nice for you.’ He hoped she knew that was what the Queen was supposed to say when she didn’t like someone.

She gave him a relieved smile and a nod of appreciation. Then she turned on her heel and was gone into the crowd.

*   *   *