‘It’s out of order.’

There was a blurry half an hour or so in which they scrambled on the pavements of Great Portland Street, looking for a corner shop, before they gave up altogether. The rain had long abated. Hotel canopies were dripping on the heads of passers-by, the gutter pipes were sluicing by their feet and all of London’s fairground dazzle seemed undignified. After this, a quietness began to settle, prompting him to think about tomorrow.

‘I should turn in for the night, I think.’

Cort came and shook his hand. ‘I’m really glad we did this, Mayhood.’

‘Take care, Fred.’

‘I’ll see you in Usonia. Or maybe just the office.’

‘Monday morning. Bright and early.’

‘Cheerio.’

He watched Cort shamble round the corner, clattering the railings with his fingers like a kid. His own legs felt unsteady as he wandered down to Oxford Street to catch the last bus home to Dulwich. When he got back to his lodgings, it was some time after midnight and his landlord’s reading lamp was still aglow in the front window, shutting off as soon as his key met the lock.

The starkness of his room was dismal. There’d hardly been a spare hour since his move from Liverpool to hang a picture, let alone bring in an aspidistra or replace the furniture. Florence had stayed over with him only twice, and there didn’t seem to be much sense in dressing up his digs for his own benefit. The brandy and the beer were churning in his stomach now. He made himself a plum jam sandwich and ate it in the partial darkness, feeling suddenly alone. No matter how much he denied it, there was goodness to be found in the companionship of other men. A different sort of happiness, less bewildering or engulfing. But he’d had to leave too many of these friendships at the gates of Feltham and, since then, he’d been afraid to lose another.

All this time, the judge’s voice was still clear in his memory: ‘Arthur Patrick Mayhood, you shall go to borstal for a period of training. Three years, with a minimum of one year to be served.’ Training, he’d thought, and imagined long days hiking up a mountainside in shorts and vest, performing shuttle runs on muddy football fields. Whatever training meant, it had to be a vast improvement on the cells at Walton Prison. He’d seen enough of them while he was on remand there, counting down the weeks until his court date, separated mostly from the con men, muggers and wife beaters, but thrown in with a pack of them for Sunday services, hearing things that chilled him, murder tales that wouldn’t leave his head. For a while, his name had been replaced by a cell number on a uniform: K-186. He’d had a six-foot room with a barred window and an iron frame to sleep on. Mornings were for exercising on the ring, the afternoons for sewing mailbags – no talking was allowed, just stitch, stitch, stitch for hours. By nine o’clock, his door was bolted shut and lights went out. His dreams had frightened him so much he’d rarely slept.