Richard gave up his plans for trips into the countryside behind that dazzling coast and tried to find what Ben would enjoy. What did he like, though? He seemed to be pleased, strolling about, or sitting in cafes where people lazed and chatted. It was that ease with each other, the carelessness of it, that was attracting Ben, but Richard did not know that. He could think only in terms of his own past, and wondered if Ben was scared, thinking he was being followed. Ben did very much like walking along the edge of the sea, seeing the ships that appeared and were there, and then were not there, for they went again. He said to Richard, 'Where do they go?' 'Who?' 'Those ships?' 'Oh, everywhere. All over the world, Ben.'

And he saw Ben's uncomprehending face.

He liked mealtimes, and his steaks and fruit — that was all he ate, steak and fruit. He knew how to sit at a cafe table and order what he wanted, and he was managing the hotel well, sending out his clothes to be laundered, and going himself to the hotel barber, where he was shaved and his hair trimmed. Richard took him one evening to a nude show, but he got so carried away, letting out yelps and shouts of excitement, that Richard had to shush him. He wanted to go the next night, and promised to sit quietly, but when the girls came on, their nakedness bedecked with wisps of feather or shining stuff, he forgot, and had to be held down in his seat. Richard was actually afraid that Ben would run up to the stage and drag off some girl.

What was Ben? He slept in his bed, like everyone else, he used his knife and fork, he kept his clothes clean, he liked his beard neat, and his hair cut, and yet he was not like anybody.

During that week the inhabitants of this ancient port, all well used to criminals and adventurers, had taken Richard's measure; he was probably the local mafia, this young man — but not as young as he tried to seem — good-looking in an ingratiating way, a manner that always had threat in it, no matter how much he smiled. But they could not place Ben. People made excuses to get into conversation. 'Who is he?' Some said, 'What is he?' All they could get out of Richard, who was becoming proud of his ability to fend them off, was, 'He's a film star.' And soon, as this seemed to go down well, 'He's famous. He's Ben Lovatt.'

At the end of a week Richard telephoned Johnston to say that Ben could not manage by himself. He needed another week of surveillance. Johnston did not yet know how triumphantly his plans were working. A first instalment of money had come through, but he was going to have to wait for the next one, because of arousing suspicion. He did not want to pay Richard for another week, thought his accomplice had already been promised more than enough, a quarter of a million pounds, which to Johnston would quite soon seem nothing much. Richard had argued that if he was picked up by the police with Ben going through French customs then he would be in the sort of trouble that would put him in prison for years. Now Johnston said that he hadn't been arrested, everything was fine. 'No,' said Richard now, 'but I might have been.' He wanted another quarter of a million. 'Without me it wouldn't have worked.' 'Yeah, but I'm not short of people to do my dirty work,' said Johnston, determined not to give way to Richard, probably beginning a process of blackmail.

This conversation could not go on: it was on a telephone, not in the cubbyhole but in the office of a friend of a friend, and even so, it could be traced.

'What difference is another week going to make?' asked Johnston.

'It depends if you want him nicked or not,' said Richard. 'He just does whatever I tell him, so it'll be the same with anybody, won't it?'

Traffic was swirling and grinding all around Richard: he was shouting. Johnston, in the quiet of a room in a Brixton back street that called itself an office, lost his temper, and shouted instructions, the most important being that if Ben did insist on coming back, he must not know where he could find either him, Johnston, or Rita. Then he agreed to pay for another week.

Richard told Ben that they would have another week's holiday.

'And then are we going home?' asked Ben.

'What do you want to go back there for? Why do you want to leave all this?'

For Richard this coast had been a revelation of well-being. He had come from a northern English town, and an ugly background: you could say he had been born a criminal. Like Johnston he had been in borstal, and then in prison. Meeting Johnston was the luckiest thing that ever happened to him. He worshipped Johnston, was eager to do anything for him. He was sent to this coast by Johnston, for not too delicate negotiations about getting a car, a Mercedes, into France, without papers, had succeeded and stayed. The life, particularly the casual comings and goings of the cafes and restaurants, the sunshine, the skies of this coast, bathed him with promises of happiness. He had been living poorly, hardly able to eat, though it was worth it for the sake of living here. And now this little crook, because of Johnston, was going to have a quarter of a million pounds and planned to buy a small house, or a flat, anything, provided he would be here, on the edge of this sea, where the light was.

And here was Ben, who always had to sit in the shade, and who wanted only to go back to London — but Richard had no idea at all how much.

During that second week, one night when Ben had been left at the hotel, by Richard, he set off by himself and wandered into the streets, going up the steps, always higher into the town, until he was stopped because there, in a doorway, was a girl and she was smiling at him.

She established that he was English, and then, using her few words in English to set the price, turned to go into her room. Ben did not have in his pockets what she had asked for; which was much more than Rita demanded. He thought that she would be the same as Rita, and be good to him. In the room, this girl examined Ben: she was enough like Rita to admire those great shoulders, the power of him. She turned away to slip off her skirt, and felt those hands on her shoulders, and that she was being bent forward, and the teeth in her neck. She struggled free, and screamed that he was a cochon, an animal, a pig, a bete, pushed him towards the door and out of it, and told him in French never to come near her again.

Ben went off down the street back to his hotel thinking that he must find someone like Rita, a kindly female: he was craving the kindness of women.

Richard told him that they had only three days left, and then Ben would be on his own. He did not like saying this: he did not want to leave Ben alone, and not only because it would mean the end of well-paid good times. He had become fond of this — whatever he was. He knew that Ben would be in trouble soon: he had no idea at all of what was dangerous for him and what was not.

Now Ben said that he was going back to London. He had worked out that if he had a passport, and some money, all he needed was to tell the girls at the desk to book him a flight: he had watched while other hotel guests had done this.

He wanted to see Johnston. He had done Johnston a favour. 'You just do this for me, Ben, that's right, you're doing me a bit of a favour. And I'll be real grateful to you.' These words had had the same effect on Ben as the old lady's, 'You're a good boy, Ben.'

Ben felt warmly towards Johnston, imagined how he would be welcomed — but he was hearing Richard say, 'Ben, you don't understand, Johnston's not there now.'

'Why not? Where is he?'

'He's gone away. He's not doing the minicabs any more.'

This would be true very soon, even if not true at this moment. Johnston had said, 'I don't want him back here. And I'm not going to be here long anyway. And Rita's left. Tell him that. Tell him Rita's gone.'