Perhaps the young black man was not mad; people did talk to themselves. Perhaps the old man with the torn shoe was not some desperate down-and-out with fists full of stolen mushrooms; maybe he was just an ordinary person whose shoes had split that lunchtime, while shopping. He looked at the traffic roaring by, and over it through railings at the leafy greenness of Gray's Inn, edging into view on his right. He would remember this day, this walk. Even if she did not... even if all his dreams, his hopes did not... ah, but they would. He could feel it.

"Put that fantasy down. Park, you don't know where it's been."

He turned quickly to the voice and there was Slater, bounding down the steps of Holborn Library, wearing a pair of one-and-a-half-legged jeans, with a shiny black shoe on one foot and a knee-length boot on the other; the jeans were cut to suit, so that one leg ended normally, in a stitched hem over the shoe, while the other leg came to a frayed stop just above the top of the boot. Above, Slater sported a well-worn hacking jacket over a black shirt and a black bow tie which appeared to have lots of small, dull red stones set in it. On his head sat a tartan cap, predominantly red. Graham looked at his friend and laughed. Slater responded with a look of pretended chilliness. "I see nothing to cause such hilarity."

"You look like -" Graham shook his head and waved one hand at Slater's jeans and footwear, and spared a glance for his cap.

"What I look like," Slater said, coming forward and taking Graham by the elbow to continue walking, "is somebody who has discovered an old pair of RAF pilot's boots at a market stall in Camden."

"And taken a knife to them," Graham said, looking down at Slater's legs and shrugging his arm free of the light grip which held it.