“I didn’t write it!”

“You know who did. Where’s Mellor?”

Waleski started, caught off his guard by the sudden switch from one subject to another.

Rollison snapped: “Where’s Mellor? Tell me or I’ll smash your face in. You think I hurt you just now but you’ll find out what it’s like to be really hurt if you don’t tell me. Where’s Mellor?”

He levelled the gun at Waleski’s stomach and his face took on an expression of bleak mercilessness which pierced Waleski’s already shaken composure, made him sit there with his eyes scared and his lips parted, his hands grasping the arms of the chair.

But he didn’t answer.

“Get out of the room, Judith,” said Rollison, without looking at the girl. “I don’t want you to see what happens to the obstinate Mr

Waleski. Shut yourself in the kitchen and stuff your ears with cotton-wool.”

He didn’t alter the tone of his voice and didn’t look away from Waleski.

Judith hesitated.

“Hurry, please.”

She turned slowly towards the door of the tiny kitchen and paused with her fingers on the handle. She saw the two men staring at each other, sensed the clash of wills and the working fear in Waleski, opened the door sharply and stepped into the room beyond. She heard Rollison say:

“I’ll give you one minute.”

The door closed.

She stood close against it, her body stiff, staring at the painted wood as if she could see through it into the next room. There was a breathless hush which did not seem to be disturbed by noises from outside. It lasted for what seemed a long time—and then she heard a thud, a cry, a sudden flurry of movement and another thud. She leaned against the door, unable to move and beginning to tremble.