And the memory of her name. Katia.

The train began slowing.

I kept my eyes on the opposite side of the compartment now. The Glow of Wundalite, a panel read, For a Festive Christmas! It was already late January. Perhaps they meant for next Christmas too, for every Christmas. That would be the message, really: that you could have a Festive Christmas with those things lit up all over the tree. I let my mind, or part of it, consider these ideas, surprised that I needed so desperately to hang on to something ordinary and acceptable as a focus for thought while the soundless ness went on, and the fierce primeval satisfaction.

The train came to a halt and as people started moving I pushed against the plump woman, forcing her towards the doors on the opposite side as they opened and some of the passengers got out.

“Is this — ”

“Yes,” I told her, “but we’ll have to hurry.” I took her arm and stopped her falling as we reached the doors.

“Are you sure this — ”

“Piccadilly,” I said, and made certain she didn’t turn round. “I’ll look after you, don’t worry.”

But as soon as she’d got her feet on the platform I turned away and didn’t look back. I was one of the first through the gates and a minute later I was walking fast in the blinding rain with my head down and my hands dug into my pockets and a kind of laughter coming that I tried to stop, but couldn’t.

“What the hell for?” I asked him.

Holmes shut the file and went back to his desk and sat down and said:

“It’s all I know. You’re on standby. Signal ends.” He picked up the phone.

“Put that bloody thing down,” I told him, and he did, looking up at me with his totally expressionless face. “I want to know who sent for me.”