Celie got out of the cab, thrust a half a crown into his hand and walked quickly down the passage.

At the end of the passage there was an enclosed courtyard, surrounded on three sides by tall, dingy-looking buildings.

Celie crossed the courtyard and entered the centre building. Inside, the hall was dim and smelt of stale cooking and tobacco smoke and perspiration. An old-fashioned lift, one that you propelled by pulling on a rope, faced her. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Celie entered the lift, slid the grill shut and pulled on the rope. The lift rose slowly and hesitantly between the floors as if it might, at any moment, part from its cable and go crashing down into the lift-well, but it finally came to a creaking halt at the top floor. The door facing the lift was resplendent under a coat of dark red paint.

The brass knocker and letterbox glittered in the sunlight that came through the skylight immediately overhead. A small brass plate was screwed to the centre of the door. On it, painted in neat black letters was one word, Gilroy.

Gilroy eventually opened the door. He was a tall, thickset negro with a broad, sensitive face. His bloodshot eyes were dreamy and sad. He was dressed in a pair of white cotton pyjamas and a thin, cheap black dressing gown relieved by white piping and a white cord.

The negro hunched his great shoulders when he saw Celie, but he didn’t say anything.

“Surprised?” she said.

He cleared his throat before saying, “Would you be surprised if I came to see you?”

Celie smiled. “That kind of miracle only happens in my dreams.”

A tiny grimace, a tightening of his thick lips, showed that he realized tactlessness. He pulled the door to so that he was between the doorpost and the door, preventing her from entering.

“You mustn’t come here,” he said. “It does no good. Someone might see you.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

She walked past him into his sitting room. It was a vast room with long windows at either end which overlooked the greyness of the West End.

A full-sized concert grand piano took up part of the room. A divan covered with brilliantly coloured cushions stood before a large empty fireplace. Books lined the walls and in one corner of the room stood a set of primitive native drums.

Gilroy wandered to the piano and leaned against it. He twirled the cord of his dressing gown and frowned down at the carpet.

“You’re the only man who treats me like this,” Celie said, looking out of the window, her slim back stiff with nervous anger.

“All coloured men would treat you in the same way,” Gilroy returned. “It’s no good. You’re no longer of our people.”

Celie turned. “You always say that,” she said. “Why? Aren’t I the same colour as you? Aren’t I? Aren’t I?”

He sat down at the piano. “You have no thought for my race, otherwise . . .” he shrugged. “But we have gone over that before. What is it you want?”

She leaned her slight body against him. Her body ached for this man. To her, he was Haiti. In a few years, Rollo, Butch and all the other men she knew would have tired of her. Then what was going to happen to her?

Unless Gilroy or some other man of her race accepted her, she would never be able to return to Haiti, and there were times when Celie longed to go back to her birthplace.

“What will it mean?” she asked, after a long pause.

“No good will come of it,” he returned, his hands suddenly sliding from the keyboard. “Leave it alone.”

She looked at him helplessly. “I can’t even ask you to help me.”

He shook his head. “Because you know what you want me to do is bad. But it is going to happen without you asking.”

He clenched his great fists. “And I shall do it.”

Celie put the glass of whisky down on the table. “What do you mean?” she said uneasily.

“If Rollo asks me to do it, I will,” Gilroy said, moving to the window and standing with his legs planted apart and his hands thrust into the pockets of his dressing gown. “But, it will be the end of us all.” He hunched his shoulders. “And that will be good.”

Superstitious dread long dormant, lulled by the hard, cynical life she had been leading, stirred in Celie.

“If he asks you what?” she said, clenching her hands into fists.

“Is there nothing you people won’t do for money?” he demanded, not turning. “Keep away from them, Celie. I’ve warned you. I shall not do it again.”

She stood up. “You talk in riddles,” she said, trying to shake off her feeling of fear. “You’re in a strange mood today. Perhaps, tomorrow . . .”

She took a step forward, rage and fear contorting her face. “You’re trying to frighten me . . .” she began, and then her words were cut off as the front door bell rang sharply. “Who’s that?” she asked, looking across the room, tense and suspicious.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

They stood listening. The bell rang again.

“You’d better go in there,” he said, pointing to his bedroom.

“Don’t answer the door,” Celie said, thinking of Butch. “If anyone found me here . . .”

Gilroy smiled. “You should have thought of that before,” he said indifferently.

She saw that he was determined to go to the door, so she ran into the bedroom.

Gilroy waited until she had shut the door and then walked into the hall. He found Doc Martin in the passage.

“I want to talk to you,” Doc said, pushing his way into the hall.

“I was expecting you,” Gilroy said, closing the door and following Doc into the sitting room.

Doc sniffed. Celie’s subtle perfume was faint but unmistakable. He looked sharply at Gilroy who met his eyes calmly.

Was there no end to Celie’s amorous activities? Doc asked himself, as he lowered his bony little body into an armchair.

“You’ve been a dance drummer long enough,” he began, placing his fingertips together. Then he frowned. “What did you say? Why were you expecting me?”

Gilroy sat at the piano again. “Never mind,” he said. “Go on. You think I’ve been a dance drummer long enough?”

Doc stared at him. “You’re an odd fish,” he said, frankly puzzled. “Don’t you think so yourself?”

Gilroy shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“I can give you a chance to get in the money,” Doc went on, after a pause. “There’s a man who wants to know about voodoo. He’ll pay big money. You can help.”

Gilroy fiddled with the music rack, adjusting it and then laying it flat.

“Voodoo? What makes you think I know anything about it?”

Doc shrugged. “I don’t. I’ve been reading about it. It’s nothing but a primitive superstition. You’re intelligent. You can pretend you are an expert. That’s all we need until we clean up. It’ll be worth a thousand pounds to you.”

Gilroy closed his eyes. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“It’s simple enough,” Doc returned. “I can coach you. We can fake a few tricks so that he’ll believe you’re the goods. Then when he’s paid up, we can slide out. We’ll discuss the details tonight with Rollo. I just wanted to make sure that you’d be willing to do it.”

Gilroy nodded. “If it is as simple as all that,” he said, “but are you sure?”

“We have to find out exactly what he wants us to do, of course,” Doc said, “but I think it will be simple enough. The man is not right in his head.”

“You don’t believe in voodoo?” Gilroy asked the question very casually.

Doc laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Do you?”

Gilroy shrugged. “They believe in it in my country,” he returned, “but then, we are only ignorant niggers.”

Doc looked at him sharply. “You aren’t,” he said. “There’s something about you I don’t quite understand.”

Gilroy stood up. “Suppose we talk this over with Rollo?” he said. “Tonight?”

Doc looked up at him. “I thought there might have been difficulties . . .” he said as if he were thinking aloud. “ You’ll help us?”