Nothing.

He walked all the way to Upper Street, near the bus-stops, before he found a free phonebox. He stood in it, his clothes and skin steaming, dripping water into the urine-scented callbox, called her number, listened to it ring, called again, saying the numbers to himself like a chant, making sure his finger was in the right hole on the dial each time. The double ring: trr-trr: trr-trr: trr-trr. He listened to it, trying to will her to the phone; imagining her coming back to the flat after being out; she might hear the phone from the street... now she would put the key in the lock... now running up the stairs... now dashing in, dripping, short of breath, to grab the receiver... now... now.

Trr-trr: trr-trr: trr-trr.

Please.

His hand hurt, his mouth ached with the expression of tense anguish he knew he wore, water ran from his hair, over his face, down his back. Water dripped from his elbow where it bent, holding the phone up to his ear.

Be there: be there: be there: trr-trr: trr-trr: trr-trr...

There were people outside the callbox. It was still raining, though more lightly now. A girl outside tapped on the glass, he turned away, ignored her. Please be there... trr-trr: trr-trr: trr-trr...

The door of the callbox opened eventually. A wet-looking blonde in a rain-darkened coat stood there, glaring at him," "Ere, wot's your game, eh? I've only been standin" "ere twen'y minutes, "aven" I? You ain't even put your bleedin" money in yet!"

He said nothing; he put the phone down and walked away to get a bus. He forgot to take his ten pence out of the slot where he'd had it ready, and he'd left a pile of tens and fives sitting on top of the directories. He felt sick.

She apologised, over the phone, the next day; she'd been hiding under the bedclothes, playing her favourite David Bowie cassette at maximum volume on her Sony Walkman, trying to drown the noise of the thunder.

He laughed, loving her for it.

Graham passed a small hall; in its courtyard was a little stall selling cakes. He considered buying a cake to eat, but while he was thinking about it he kept on walking, and thought it would look stupid to turn back so far up the street, so he didn't, though at the thought his stomach suddenly rumbled. He'd last eaten about four hours earlier, in the same small cafe where he'd got Slater to tell him about Sara that January.

Graham crossed the road. He was approaching Clairmont Square, at the summit of the hill, where tall houses, once genteel, then decaying, now undergoing gentrification, faced over tall trees to the bustle of traffic on Pentonville Road. Graham shifted his plastic portfolio from one hand to the other. Inside were drawings of Sara ffitch, and Graham was proud of them. The drawings were in a new style he had been experimenting with recently, and now, he felt, he had got it just right. It was perhaps a little early to be certain, but he thought they were probably the best things he had ever done. This made him feel good. It was another sort of omen; a confirmation....

Once they'd had a conversation on two levels, from street to first-floor window; it had been in April; on the second occasion he'd visited her in the afternoon, for a walk along the canal.

She came to the window when he pressed the button on the entryphone, poking her head out of the lower half of the opened sash window, through dark brown curtains. "Hello!" she'd called.

He went out into the middle of the street. "Coming out to play?'. he said, smiling up at her in the sunlight. Just then the window had slipped, the lower half falling down on her; she laughed and turned her head round.

"Ouch," she said.

"You all right?" he asked. She nodded.

"Didn't hurt." She wriggled. He shielded his eyes to see better. "I think I can get back in. Hope so, or I'm stuck here."

He gave a small, concerned laugh. He thought suddenly of how she must look, seen from inside the kitchen she was leaning out of; an ugly sexual idea occurred to him, and he looked about for the big black BMW bike, but it wasn't there. It never was when she invited him to meet her at the flat; she was keeping him and Stock out of each other's way. Sara was giggling.

Things like this are always happening to me," she "said, and shrugged, put her elbows on the sill of the window and smiled down at him. She wore a loose, heavy tartan shirt, like some fake lumberjack.

"So," he said, "are you coming for a walk?"

"Where shall we go?" she said. "Tempt me."

"I don't know. You fed up with the canal?"

"Maybe," she shrugged. Her eyes seemed to wander away from him, scanning the horizon. "Ah," she said, "the Post Office Tower."

He turned round, looking south and west, though he knew he couldn't see the tall building from the street. "You want to go there?"

"We could go to the revolving restaurant," she laughed.

"I thought they'd closed it," he said. She shrugged, stretched her arms out, arching her back.

"Have they? How boring of them."

"Bit out of my price range anyway," he laughed. "I'll buy you a Wimpy and chips if you're hungry. There; how's that for an offer?"

The zoo," she said, and looked down at him.

"Aardvark and chips? Chimpy and chips?" he said. She laughed, making him feel good.

She said, "We could go to the zoo today."

"You really want to?" he said. He'd heard it was quite expensive to get in. But he'd go if she wanted.

"I don't know," she shrugged again, "I think so,"

The canal goes by the zoo. Might be a long walk, but it would be nice. Through Camden Lock." His neck was getting sore from looking up at her. She gripped the edge of the window sill, seemed to strain up on the window across the small of her back. She's stuck, he thought, but she doesn't want to admit it. Proud; embarrassed. Like me. He smiled. Perhaps he would have to go and get a ladder; rescue her. The idea amused him.

"Did you know the canal goes right under this house?" she said.

He shook his head. "No. Does it?"

"Straight underneath," she nodded. "Right below. I looked it up on the map. Isn't that amazing?"

"Maybe there's a secret passage."

"We could build one. Tunnel." Her voice sounded scratchy; he wanted to laugh at her but didn't. She was getting annoyed, embarrassed at being stuck out of the window, making conversation while she secretly strained, trying to heave the trapping window back up.

"You having problems up there?" he said, trying to keep a straight face.

"What?" she said, then "No, no of course not." She cleared her throat. "So, what have you been doing with yourself."

"Nothing much," he grinned, "just looking forward to seeing you." She made a funny face, gave a snorting sort of laugh. He continued, "I've done some more drawings of you."

"Oh yes?"

"They're still not good enough, though. I'm going to tear them up."

"Really?"

"You're difficult to draw." He looked up and down the street. "Will you pose for me properly some time?"

"You mean improperly," she said. He laughed.

"Better still. But I'd settle for you sitting still for a while."

"Maybe. One day. Well, all right; yes, definitely. I promise."

"I'll hold you to it."

"Do."

"So, are you going to come down?" he said.

She really was stuck. She turned her head round, he saw her shoulders tense and her back arch again. She muttered something which sounded like a curse. She turned to him again, nodded, "Yes, yes, just a second."

He grinned as she pushed up on the window sill, her head down, hair hanging blackly. He could just see her face as he walked over to the pavement beneath. She grunted; the window squeaked. He looked up into her triumphant face; she smiled broadly and then pushed herself back, waving once, saying, "Ah, that's better. See you in a second."