She whispered, ‘He went away,’ and laid her hands on his arms, her head on his chest.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, and put his arm round her, holding her close, and walked her out the way he had come. Nigel was waiting for them at the door with the gun in his hand.

‘Leave go of her,’ he said. ‘Let go of her and get out, she’s nothing to do with you.’

It was the way he said it and, more than that, the words he used that made Alan laugh. Nothing to do with him, Joyce whom his conscience had brought into a bond with him closer than he had ever had with Pam, closer than he had with Una . . . He gave a little dry laugh, looking incredulously at Nigel. Then he took a step forward, pulling Joyce even more tightly against him, sheltering her in the crook of his right arm, and as he heard the roar and her cry out, he flung up his left arm to shield her face and threw her to the ground.

The second bullet and the third struck him high up in the body with no more pain than from two blows of a fist.

24

Nigel grabbed the bundle of notes he had given to Joyce and stuffed it into the carrier with the other one. He had a last swift look round the room and saw the briefcase lying on the floor a little way from Joyce’s right foot. He unzipped it a few inches, saw the wads of notes and put the briefcase into his rucksack. Then he opened the door and stepped out.

The noise of the shooting had been tremendous, so loud as to fetch forth Mr Green. Bridey, coming in when she thought the coast would be clear, heard it as she mounted the second flight. Neither of them made any attempt to hinder Nigel who slammed the door behind him and swung down the stairs. In his progress through the vertical tunnel of the house, he passed the red-haired girl who cried out to him:

‘What’s going on? What’s happening?’

He didn’t answer her. He ran down the last dozen steps, along the passage and out into the street where, though only five, it was already growing dark from massed rain clouds.

The red-haired girl went upstairs. Bridey and Mr Green looked at her without speaking.

‘My God,’ said the red-haired girl, ‘what was all that carry-on like shots? That fella what’s-his-name, that fair one, he’s just gone down like a bat out of hell.’

‘Don’t ask me,’ said Bridey. ‘Better ask that pig. He’s his pal.’

Mr Green shuffled over to Marty’s door. He banged on it with his fist, and then the red-haired girl banged too.

‘I don’t know what to do. I’d ask my fella only he’s not back from work. I reckon I’d better give the fuzz a phone. Can’t let it just go on, can we?’

‘That’s a very serious step to take, a very serious step,’ Bridey was saying, when Mr Green looked down at the floor. From under the door, across the wood-grained linoleum, between his slippers, came a thin trickle of blood.

‘My godfathers,’ said Mr Green. ‘Oh, my godfathers.’

The red-haired girl put her hand over her mouth and bolted down to the phone. Bridey shook her head and went off downstairs again. She had decided that discretion, or a busman’s holiday in the Rose of Killarney, was the better part of social conscience.

In the room, on the other side of the door, Alan lay holding Joyce in his arms. He felt rather cold and tired and he wasn’t finding breathing easy because Joyce’s cheek was pressed against his mouth and nose. Nothing would have induced him to make any movement to disturb Joyce who felt so comfortable and relaxed in her sleep. He was quite relaxed himself and very happy, though not sure exactly where he was. It seemed to him that they must be on a beach because he could taste saltiness on his lips and feel wetness with his hands. Yet the place, wherever it was, also had the feeling of being high up and lofty, a vaulted hall. His memory was very clear. He repeated to himself, Alas, said Queen Guenever, now are we mischieved both. Madam, said Sir Lancelot, is there here any armour within your chamber that I might cover my poor body withal? An if there be any give it me, and I shall soon stint their malice, by the grace of God. Truly, said the queen, I have none armour, shield, sword nor spear . . .

He couldn’t remember the rest. There was a lot of it but perhaps it wasn’t very appropriate, anyway. Something about the queen wanting to be taken and killed in his stead, and Lancelot saying, God defend me from such shame. Alan smiled at the indignation in that, which he quite understood, and as he smiled his mouth seemed to fill with the saltiness and to overflow, and the pressure on his face and chest became so great that he knew he must try to shift Joyce. She was too heavy for him to move. He was too tired to lift his arms or move his head, too tired to think or remember or breathe. He whispered, ‘Let’s go to sleep now, Una . . .’

They started breaking the door down, but he didn’t hear them. A sergeant and a constable had come over from Willesden Green, supposing at first they had been called out to a domestic disturbance because the red-haired girl had been inarticulate on the phone. The sight of the blood flowing in three narrow separate streams now, altered that. One of the panels in the door had given way when up the stairs appeared two very-top-brass-looking policemen in plain clothes and an officer in uniform. These last knew nothing of the events in the room and on the landing. They were there because Scotland Yard had discovered Marty Foster’s address.

The door went down at the next heave. The couple from the ground floor had come up, and the red-haired girl was there, and when they saw what was inside, the women screamed. The sergeant from Willesden Green told them to go away and he jammed the door shut.

The two on the floor lay embraced in their own blood. Joyce’s face and hair were covered in blood from a wound in her head, and at first it seemed as if all the blood had come from her and none from the man. The detective superintendent fell on his knees beside them. He was a perceptive person whose job had not blunted his sensitivity, and he looked in wonder at the contentment in the man’s face, the mouth that almost smiled. The next time I do fight I’ll make death love me, for I’ll contend even with his pestilent scythe . . . He felt for a pulse in the girl’s wrist. Gently he lifted the man’s arm and saw the wound in the upper chest and the wound under the heart, and saw too that of the streams of blood which had pumped out to meet them, two had ceased.

But the pulse under his fingers was strong. Eyelids trembled, a muscle flickered.

‘Thank God,’ he said, ‘for one of them.’

There was no blood on Nigel. His heart was beating roughly and his whole body was shaking, but that was only because he had killed someone. He was glad he had killed Joyce, and reflected that he should have done so before. Bridey wouldn’t take any notice, old Green didn’t count, and the red-haired girl would do no more than ask silly questions of her neighbours. Now he must put all that behind him and get to the airport. By cab? He was quite safe, he thought, but still he didn’t want to expose himself to too much scrutiny in Cricklewood Broadway.

On the other hand, it was to his advantage that this was rush-hour and there were lots of people about. Nigel felt very nearly invisible among so many. He began to walk south, keeping as far as he could to the streets which ran parallel to Shoot-up Hill rather than to the main road itself. But there was even less chance of getting a cab there. Once in Kilburn, he emerged into the High Road. All the street lights were on now, it was half-past five, and a thin drizzle had begun. Nigel felt in the carrier for the bunch of Ford Escort keys. If that Marty, that little brain, could rip off a car, so could he. He began to hunt along the side streets.