They started out walking, but then on Theobald's Road Slater insisted on getting a bus. Graham pointed out that a 179 only went as far as Kings Cross, which wasn't very far and not even in exactly the right direction. Slater said it was in roughly the right direction, and anyway his new shoes were tight and he didn't want to walk all that way. At King's Cross he got them a taxi. Graham said he couldn't really afford... Slater told him not to worry; he'd pay. It wasn't far.

In the taxi. Slater suddenly remembered something; he had a present for Graham. He dug into his jacket pocket. "Here," he said, and handed Graham something hard wrapped in tissue paper. Graham unwrapped it as the cab went up Pentonville Road. It was a small glazed china figurine of a woman, naked, with large breasts and her knees bent, feet under her buttocks, legs spread out. Her tiny face was set in an expression of ecstasy, her shoulders were thrown back as though she was forcing her conical breasts higher, and her hands were down at her hips, open and delicate, each finger carefully moulded. Her genitals, in the quick glance Graham gave them, seemed rather exaggerated.

"Is this supposed to be some sort of joke?" he said to Slater.

Slater took the figurine back with a grin and produced a pencil from his inside pocket, "No," he said, "it's a pencil sharpener; look," and he inserted the pencil between the model's legs.

Graham looked away, shaking his head. "It is just a little bit tasteless."

"I have more taste than anchovies in garlic butter, you young pup," Slater said. "I was just trying to cheer you up."

"Oh," Graham said, as the taxi turned left. "Thanks."

"Huh," said Slater, sitting forward in his seat to make sure the taxi driver went the right way as they approached Half Moon Crescent. "I spent several days making that for you."

"I said thanks," Graham said, then, "Oh, tell him to stop here; don't want to get too close." He checked the street to make sure Sara wasn't around; they were still in Penton Street, but you never knew.

The taxi stopped. "Let's have a drink," Slater said.

"I'll tell you one thing," said Graham, as Slater led him across the street into a pub called the White Conduit.

"What?"

"You forgot about how to get the shavings out." Graham held the china figure up in front of Slater's face. Slater frowned, looked at the over scale-sized orifice. His lips tightened.

"It's your round; I'll have a pint of lager," he said, and went to sit at a window seat looking down the short stretch of Maygood Street to Half Moon Crescent.

They heard Stock's bike ten minutes later. They both stood up and looked over the top of the window curtains, which hung from a brass rail halfway up the window. A large black BMW bike turned down Maygood Street. The person riding it wore black leathers and a black, full face helmet with a heavily tinted visor. "Yup," Slater said, "that's our man,"

Graham caught a glimpse of the bike's number: STK 228T. It was the first time he had seen the bike since that night in January when he first met Sara, when they had arrived here in the taxi. He hadn't thought to look at the bike properly then, and had always avoided coming up this way when he knew Stock was about. The rider straddling the machine got off it, took its key out and went - not entirely steady on his feet, Graham thought - to the door of Sara's flat, and put a key into the lock. Seconds later he was gone.

"Did you think he looked six foot?" Graham said, looking at Slater as they sat down. Slater nodded, took a drink.

"Easily. Looked a bit tipsy, I thought. What a hunk, though, eh?" He waggled his eyebrows up and down theatrically. Graham let his shoulders slump, and looked away.

"Do you mind?" he said. Slater nudged him.

"Don't take it so hard, kid. I'm absolutely certain it'll all work out. Believe me,"

"Are you really?" Graham said, turning to his friend.

Slater looked into Graham's face for a few seconds, watching him bite his lower lip, then his own lower lip trembled and finally a smile burst out over Slater's face as he turned away, shaking his head, sniggering.

"Well, to be honest, no, but I was trying to be encouraging. Good grief, how on earth should I know?"

"Jesus," Graham breathed, and finished his half pint of bitter. He stood up, sighing. Slater looked at him unhappily.

"Oh God, you're not going out in a huff, are you?"

"I'm just going outside for a little bit... to have a look round. I won't be too long."

"You know," Slater said, weakly slapping the table top beside his drink, "Gates, you're going to have to get those lines right before we hire the ice-breaker." The last few words were barely comprehensible as Slater collapsed, forearm on table, head on forearm, his back shaking as he laughed, muffled grunts of mirth echoing off the floor beneath him. Some of the older customers in the bar looked at him suspiciously.

Graham frowned deeply at Slater, wondering what on earth he was talking about, then left and went for a quick, stealthy walk round the back of Half Moon Crescent and up a little side alley, listening for any shouts or arguments from inside the flat. There was nothing. He went back to the pub, where Slater had bought him a pint. As Graham sat down Slater started to shake and his face went red; tears appeared in his eyes, and finally he had to splutter, "Fucking Norwegian bastards!" He fell sideways on the bench seat and doubled up with silent, spasmic laughter. Graham sat, feeling terrible, hating Stock and Slater and feeling sick about Sara and what she might be doing right now, and half-wishing that the pub landlord would throw Slater out.

Luckily, despite his threats. Slater did not tell Sara he and Graham had been there that day. They sat in the park later that week, getting slightly drunk on the champagne, and Slater talked about lots of things, but not that.

"I've just had this great idea," he announced from the grass, holding up his plastic cup. They had almost finished the champagne.

"What?" Sara said. She sat against the tree, Graham's head on her shoulder. He was pretending to be asleep so that he could keep his head there, near her soft, warm-scented skin.

"Interdopa," Slater said, waving the cup around at the still blue sky. This hippy turns up on your doorstep, bums a fag off you and shoves a lump of crumpled silver paper into your hand..."

"Put me down for the inaugural run," Sara laughed gently. Graham wanted to laugh, too, but could not; better to rest here, feel her lovely body shake, tremble under his head and touch...

He still remembered that feeling; weeks later he could still shiver at the thought of it. It was like the first time he had ever spent a night with a girl, back in Somerset. The next day, with his friends in the pub at lunchtime, watching a local football match in the afternoon, having dinner with his parents that evening, later watching a film on television at a friend's house, he kept having flashbacks; a flesh-memory of the feeling of that young woman's skin would suddenly make him shudder and his head swim. He recalled with some shame that he had been naive enough at the time to wonder if this feeling was love. Luckily he hadn't talked to anyone about it.

He could see the White Conduit ahead now, and he remembered how wretched he had felt that afternoon. Since then he had been back here once again when he knew he wasn't expected. He'd said to Slater he was going home, when they parted at lunchtime in the sandwich bar in Red Lion Street, but in fact he came up here, and saw Stock arrive on the bike not long after he started watching. This time Sara was visible, moving about in the room she usually greeted Graham from when he pressed the entryphone buzzer. Stock had let himself in, and Sara had not reappeared.