You close the book. You don’t want to turn the page.

The lavatory was not entirely dark because there was a light shining in the yard between number forty-eight and the house that backed on to it. Rory had found a stub of pencil in his jacket pocket and a couple of creased envelopes in his wallet. He tore an envelope apart and laid it on the windowsill. A faint, diffused light penetrated the frosted glass. He could hardly read the words he wrote.

Not that it mattered. He scribbled faster and faster. He forgot about writing for Berkeley’s. He forgot about editors and readers and his hope of future commissions. The only thing that counted was the need to get the words on the paper.

I have been working in India for five years, and found myself on my return in an unfamiliar political landscape. When I went to a small British Union of Fascists meeting on Saturday afternoon, I had few preconceptions and no political axe to grind. When I left the meeting less than an hour later, dragged out by a pair of Blackshirts, the arguments against Fascism were beginning to impress me. After the Blackshirts had imprisoned me, after they had beaten me and threatened to frame me as an armed troublemaker, the force of those arguments had become overwhelming. I suppose I should be grateful to the British Union of Fascists. I may not know much else about modern British politics but I am now able to say, with utter and absolute certainty, that I am anti-Fascist. Sir Rex Fisher, the British Union’s Deputy Director of Economic Policy, was the principal speaker. His purpose was to-

A key turned in the front door. There were voices in the hall. Rory pushed the envelopes into his pocket and stood up, his weight on one foot like a stork. When the hall lights snapped on, his first thought was that it must be the Biff Boys or the caretaker. But he heard Lydia calling his name and relaxed.

She had brought with her both Julian Dawlish and a taxi driver. The latter, an undersized man with an elderly bowler hat squashed on his head, ran an experienced eye over Rory and said, “Been in the wars, have we?”

“Hurry,” Lydia said. “Howlett may see the lights.”

The driver and Dawlish helped Rory along the hall and into the back of the taxi waiting in Rosington Place. Lydia and Dawlish squeezed in beside him. The sky had filled with the dim, un-earthly radiance of a London dusk. The rain was falling steadily.

Dawlish looked out of the window toward the chapel. “There’s someone over there.”

“It’s all right-it’s Mr. Fimberry.” Lydia wriggled in her seat.

Dawlish rapped on the partition with his knuckles. “Drive on,” he mouthed to the cabby.

“He’s picking something up,” Lydia said, puzzled.

As the taxi drew away from the curb, Rory glanced out of the window at the forlorn figure of Malcolm Fimberry on the chapel forecourt. “At least he’s rescued something from the wreckage.”

“What is it?” Dawlish asked.

Rory was still watching Fimberry, bareheaded in the rain. He was cradling something. “It’s his skull,” Rory said. “What’s left of it.”

Fenella was waiting for them at Mecklenburgh Square. The four of them sat in the front room of the basement and drank strong, sweet tea flavored with whisky.

“I’m so sorry, Wentwood,” Dawlish said. “I had no idea this would happen. I assumed they wouldn’t have the slightest idea who you were.”

“Somebody made a mistake,” Rory said. “Nobody’s fault.”

“On the contrary,” Lydia said. “It was my husband’s mistake and his fault too. With the full support of that ghastly organization he belongs to. What on earth do they think they’re playing at?”

Nobody answered.

Rory lit a cigarette. It was painful to smoke because his lips were swollen and split. “Is there a typewriter I can use?”

“I can lend you one,” Dawlish said.

“Serridge wrecked mine,” Rory explained. “Incidentally, he wants me out of the flat by Monday.”

“Why?” Fenella asked.

“He thinks I’m a spy.” He glanced at her, uncertain how she would react. “He thinks I’ve been ferreting around after Miss Penhow.”

Dawlish frowned. “Who are these people?”

“It’s a long story.” Rory patted his jacket pocket. “I made a start on the article while Lydia was fetching you.” He had used her Christian name without thinking, and he registered the fact that Fenella had noticed it. He didn’t care. The whisky was beginning to work on him, its effect accelerated by tiredness and shock. He felt light-headed and rashly omnipotent. “I’m afraid it’s going to be rather personal in tone. In fact it’s one long scream of outrage.”

“Where will you go when you leave your flat?” Dawlish asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I expect you could stay here for a week or two. While you find your feet.”

Fenella sucked in her breath and said nothing.

Rory glanced at her. “That would be very kind but really I couldn’t-”

“Why ever not? We’ve got all this space here. I don’t think the attics have been used for generations.”

“Won’t the owner mind?” Fenella said. “Shouldn’t we ask him first?”

Dawlish rubbed a coil of ash into his corduroy trousers. He had lost his glasses during the fight in the undercroft, which made him look naked and unprotected. “As a matter of fact I’m the owner.”

Rory had a beguiling vision of a world where wealth made everything possible: where you had houses at your disposal, and obliging taxi drivers, and full bottles of whisky when you wanted to entertain your friends. In his half-tipsy condition, he was ready to feel jealous of Dawlish. He glanced across the room at the man and saw that he was looking at Fenella; and for a moment there was something so vulnerable and woebegone about his face that Rory stopped feeling jealous.

He said, as much to change the subject as to receive an answer, “I say, I wonder if I could ask you to read my draft when I’ve finished it-just to make sure I’m not wildly off the mark.”

“Of course,” Dawlish said. “But I shouldn’t worry too much. You were there. It will work because of that.” He waved the hand holding his mug of whisky and tea; Rory realized that Dawlish too was well on the way to being tipsy. “An eyewitness account. The ring of authenticity. It’s not something you can fake.”

There was a moment’s silence. Fenella stirred, as if about to say something. But it was Lydia who spoke first.

“Yes, of course,” she said slowly.

“Of course what?” Fenella asked in a rather unfriendly voice.

Lydia smiled at her. “The ring of authenticity. As Mr. Dawlish said, you can’t fake it. You know, if you don’t mind, I think I should go home now.”

Dawlish said he would fetch a taxi. Lydia said she preferred to walk. Dawlish pointed out that it was still raining and repeated the offer; then, working out that Lydia was trying to save money, he recalled that his brother’s Lagonda was parked at the back and that he had promised his brother he would turn the engine over at least once a day; so, truly, it would be doing him a favor if Lydia allowed him to run her back to Bleeding Heart Square. While he was there, he could pick up anything Rory needed for the night.

While Dawlish was bringing the Lagonda round to the front of the house, Fenella and Lydia went into the little hall where the coats hung on a row of hooks. Rory watched the two women through the open door. His tea had been replaced with a glass of whisky. He felt at peace with the world, and the sensation was all the more enjoyable because he knew it would be short-lived.

A car horn sounded outside. Lydia belted up her coat and waved to Rory. Fenella returned to the sitting room and helped herself to a cigarette from Dawlish’s case, which was on the mantelpiece. She knelt in front of the electric fire which stood on the hearth. Her mood had changed again, he thought-her eyes were gleaming with excitement.