Zeb wore grubby training shoes with no socks, the same flayed jeans he'd worn the night before, a shirt, a holed jumper and an old parka.  I looked through one of the holes in his jumper as we walked to the Underground railway station. 'Brother Zebediah,' I asked suspiciously, 'is that shirt reverse-buttoned?'

'Aw,' he said. 'Shit.  Is.  Please.  Look.  Christ.  Come on.'

'Brother Zebediah, this back-sliding has to stop.  Come on; off with the jumper.'

'Aw.  Fuck.  Shit.  Come on.  No.  Is…'

I stood in front of him and helped him off with his jacket, then pulled the jumper over his head.

'Christ.  I don't.  I mean.  This.  Fuck.  Unreal.' We were outside a newsagent's, and I did not wonder at the looks we were getting, what with this stream of profanity.  Zeb held his parka and jumper while I undid his shirt buttons one by one and did them up properly.

'Fuck.  Is.  What.  I mean.  Roadkill.  I mean, she.  We.  Share.  Both.  Fuck.  Whatever's.  You know.  Lying about.'

'"Reverse-button your shirts, that the Saved shall know each other."' I quoted him.

'Yeah.  But.  Fuck.'

Reverse-buttoning apparently started because Salvador was ashamed of having mismatched buttons on his shirt one time when he had to go to Stornoway.  It became one of our rituals when it was realised that it could be a way of recognising other Orderites, as well as acting as a constant reminder that we are Different.  Reverse-buttoning consists simply of pushing a shirt button through from the outside of the button-hole, so that the button is hidden, and faces in towards the skin.  'There,' I said, pushing Zeb's shirt back into his jeans and patting his concave belly. 'Heavens, Brother Zebediah, there's nothing of you.'

Zeb sighed and put his jumper back on, then shrugged his jacket over his narrow shoulders.  He made to move off. 'Ah!' I said, and pointed at his forehead.

'Jeez.  Is.  Fuck.  Hell.'

'I don't expect you have any of the blessed mud,' I told him, 'but you may use mine this once, and luckily I have brought some spare vials from the Community, one of which I can leave with you.'

'Shit,' Zeb said, but let me make the little V on his forehead with the mud-ointment.  I pocketed my jar. 'There,' I told him, taking his arm and continuing towards the station. 'Now we are indeed ready to face whatever the city will throw at us.'

Zeb had gone very quiet after that and only spoke again once we had our tickets, when he asked about eating kangaroos.

'Tricky one,' I admitted. 'Could kangaroos' fore-legs really be said to be legs at all, given that they seem to be used more as arms?'

'Yeah,' Zeb said. 'See? 'Zactly.'

'Could go either way,' I said, nodding grimly. 'Sort of thing one might have to ask the Founder.'

'My pal,' Zeb said. 'Ozzie.  Had some.  Said.  Like.  Great.  Best meat.  Ever tasted.  Lean.  Delicious.  Totally.  Brutal.  Brilliant.  Really.'

'Hmm,' I said. 'In that case I'd probably err on the side of generosity; I have always been of the opinion that God does not normally make things appetising for no good reason.'

'Right.  Good.  Thought so.  Yeah.' Zeb looked relieved for a moment and then oddly thoughtful, as though some aberrant brain-state had succeeded in troubling him.

'Orwell?' he said, tentatively.

'Orwell?' I echoed, puzzled.

He shrugged. 'Four legs good.'

I stared nonplussed at him for a moment, then understood. 'Ah!' I exclaimed, clapping him on the back and causing him to stagger.  'Two legs bad!' I laughed. 'That's quite funny, Brother Zebediah.'

He still looked confused.

Our train terminated at Baker Street.  We returned almost to the surface; I stood to one side while Zeb queued at the ticket office, it being a frustrating property of the London Underground system that the techniques of Back Bussing cannot be applied.

I looked around.  Such crowds of people!  I was conscious of the complete reversal of the situation one experienced living in the Community, where for days, weeks, and even in certain cases months at a time one would know, and know fairly well, every single person one came into contact with; to see a stranger was an event.  Here the opposite was the case; one assumed that everybody one bumped into was a stranger, and meeting a familiar face was generally a cause for joy and celebration.

'Excuse me.  Can I help you?' said a quiet spoken, middle-aged man in a grey coat.  He put one hand gently on my elbow.  His other hand held a black briefcase. 'Are you lost?' he asked me.

'Far from it,' I told him, looking down at his hand. 'I am one of the Found.  I suspect it is you who are one of the Lost, sir.'

'What?' he said, looking confused.

'Friend, you see before you one of the most fortunate and favoured people to walk the sorry soil of earth, for I walk in the sight of God.  I have the joyful honour of-'

'Oi,' Zeb said, walking smartly up to us.

The man muttered something vaguely apologetic and moved away into the crowd, head down.

'Brother Zebediah, I was engaged in missionary work just there,' I rebuked him as we returned to the train tunnels.

'Like.  Shit.  Fuckin'.  Pervert.  More like.  Got.  Be careful.'

'Zeb, I am not totally naive concerning the ways of the world and the vices of the city,' I told him. 'Quite possibly that gentleman did have some nefarious and even sexually predatory motive in talking to me, but I ask you: what other sort of soul is more in need of being saved?  I have a duty as an Officer of the True Church and especially as the Elect to spread the good word wherever and whenever possible.  I am grateful for your concern but you must not assume that I am being gulled when in fact I am evangelising.  I am perfectly capable of requesting help should I happen to need it.'

This seemed to send Zeb into something of a huff, and I reflected that perhaps it was as well that I hadn't gone on to point out that, as I was an inch or so taller than he, not to mention better and more sturdily built, his intervention in such circumstances might not always be as decisive as he seemed to imagine.  Zeb's pique continued onto the train, and even my attempt to jolly him out of the mood by suggesting that we repair to the buffet car for a cheering cup of tea was met with a roll of the eyes and a 'Huh!'

Still, I hoped I had proved something regarding my resourcefulness and general urbanity just by revealing that I knew of the existence of such civilisational complexities as buffet cars on trains.

Our next change of line came at Green Park station, where we ascended to buy tickets for Covent Garden.

'Are you sure this is the quickest way to travel?' I asked my half-brother as - clutching another couple of tickets - we descended underground once more.

'Buses,' Zeb explained. 'Slower.'

'Yes, but it seems wasteful to have to keep buying separate tickets for each leg of the journey; all this extra to-ing and fro-ing from platforms to ticket office and back cannot be efficient.'

'Yeah,' Zeb sighed. 'Crazy, innit?'

Once we had established ourselves on the correct platform for Covent Garden, I stared suspiciously at an illuminated sign which read, 'Jubilee Line Southbound'.

'Hmm,' I said.

Yet another change of line, and a concomitant return to the surface for another pair of tickets at Finsbury Park station took us at last to Finchley; it was a short walk from the station to the block of flats off Nether Street which had been my cousin Morag's last address.  I was unprepared for the opulence of the building; I suppose I have always associated flats with council dwellings and even slums, and had rather assumed that to her credit Morag was putting up with cramped conditions during her stay in London so that she could save money.  However, from the size of the cars parked in the block's car park and the general look of the place, this was no rookery for the poor.