‘The prisoner will stand.’

Charlie Muffin did, but awkwardly. They’d allowed the familiar and mourned-for Hush Puppies during the trial, moulded and scuffed into comfort, but his feet still hurt like a bugger from the remand-prison boots.

The court was sparsely filled, because the entire hearing had naturally been in camera, no public and no press and officials reduced to the minimum, just the red-robed judge and the bewigged, raven-cloaked counsel, with their instructing solicitors behind. And the short, limited procession of witnesses, the barest of formalities, because Charlie hadn’t denied anything. There wasn’t anything to deny, after all.

And a deal was a deal.

He hoped.

The first to give evidence had been Cuthbertson, the Director he’d made to look a right prick, still pompous, still purple-faced, still blustering. Still a prick. Then Wilberforce, the deputy who’d deservedly gone down with the Director to whom he toadied, pastel-shaded as Charlie remembered, bony and sharp elbowed and with an adam’s apple that went up and down like an uncertain weather cone. Another prick.

It might have been a misleading impression, heightened by the emptiness of the court, but Charlie imagined the present Director had distanced himself from his predecessors. Charlie looked towards Sir Alistair Wilson. The Director looked back expressionlessly. Wilson seemed to find it easy to distance himself.

‘… Charles Edward Muffin…’

Charlie went to the judge, the reflection interrupted. Hallet, recalled Charlie. Or was it Habbet. Something like that. Port-mottled face and cheeks that wobbled when he talked; if he were allowed the red coat and the white wig after work he would have made a good Father Christmas. Yo Ho Ho and twenty years.

‘… upon your own admission, you are guilty of a serious offence under the Official Secrets Act, a traitor to your country…’ began the man.