The head came above the rim.

He had seen it in the photograph and had seen it when the man strode out on to the grass. He had seen it also when its owner was bent low over the dog, and in the chaotics moments before the flight. It came slowly and Jonno could hear heavy breathing. The light below showed the hair, then the ear and a little of the mouth. A piece of a dollar bill was wedged between the moustache and the nose. The head rocked. Jonno realised he had been seen. A question was asked not in any language Jonno knew.

A hand stretched on to the ledge. The torch beam wavered and threw light off the rockface. The fingers struggled for grip, snatched at paper and had a handful of torn passport pages and banknotes. Their eyes met. The Major gabbled words that Jonno didn't understand. He said nothing. The hand was in deep shadow but a mutilated finger lay against the paper. The target had no grip.

Another shout came from below, incomprehensible. Jonno understood that two more were on the rockface and had precarious holds and needed to press higher. They couldn't hold on when the momentum of the climb died. The eyes widened. They seemed to ask spasms of questions. Who was he? Why did he not wear a uniform and carry a weapon? Why was he not barking a commentary into a radio?

Confusion slashed the target's face.

His target would have realised he didn't face a special forces trooper, or an intelligence veteran, but a young man who might have worked in the haulage department of a retailer and shifted flow charts on gasoline consumption, and the target would have seen as the beam traversed the hint of a smile.

Jonno understood that Sparky's claims were true. He was changed, altered, addicted and infected. He kept the smile and swung back his foot. He kicked at the head, and the target swayed to the side. Jonno had loathed football and the proof was that he had missed the face twisting away to avoid him.

But he had dislodged the man. He was holding on now with one hand.

The light below flitted between them. It showed Jonno and his target. Beneath the Major his men were bawling, showering him with abuse. Jonno heard the sirens closing.

The hand that held up the target was the one that lacked an index finger.

Jonno saw anger, not fear. He was close to the edge and raised his foot. He'd heard it said that when a man had been asked why he had climbed a mountain, he had answered, 'Because it's there.' Why would he stamp on a hand and break the bones? Because it was there. He felt a terrible shivering coldness, and the fun of it.

He didn't know himself.

His gaze was on the hand and its loosening grip on the paper and the rock. He readied himself.

20.

He stamped.

He was in the glare of the torch beam and his shadow would have been thrown up grotesquely huge on the rockface above the cave. The movement loosed a cascade of the torn paper, which swirled round his leg and onto the hand and face of his target.

It was a gnarled, used hand, weathered, sun-blotched and misshapen. The veins stood erect on it. He felt it underneath his sole. To Jonno, at that moment, the hand was no more than a crushed mess of twigs that might have been in his path as he went through any woodland. He stamped on the hand as if it was debris.

It stayed put. He saw blood ooze from under the nails of three fingers, and from the thumb.

The target didn't scream. The shouts came from below, as the target's body heaved and swayed. Jonno thought those behind him were trying to lift him up and he was obstructing them. He was a man, Jonno knew, who would never plead. The eyes below him blinked hard, and behind them the Major would have been working, racetrack speed, on a solution to a problem: the big problem that was wrecking him.

Jonno was a new man. The damaged marksman had told him that he would be changed.

Jonno had heard the story of the Security Service officer's death in Budapest and had borrowed it as justification for what he had done now. He regretted that. It had had nothing to do with vengeance and everything to do with exhilaration. Kids caught on CCTV playing football on a pavement with the head of a kid from a rival gang had been wheeled into court where their actions were condemned. Shrinks had queued to talk of deprivation and disadvantage. Now Jonno knew the drug, the power it gave.

He brought his foot a little higher.

The other hand was up and searching for a grip. A shot came from below. The crack went past his face, and there was the wail of the bullet's deflection off stone. He was in the torch beam. The shouting crescendoed, and he understood none of it. He stamped not to flatten twigs but to break a man's hold on a ledge of a rockface.

Stamped again.

Heard the gasp.

Saw the hand slide away as he eased his weight off it.

He felt elation, no shame, and understood all that Sparky had said.

The hand slipped back, the face dropped below the ridge line. The target never called out.

Jonno did not know how many there were below his target. The torch beam was the first casualty and plunged away. There were shouts and oaths, then the buffeting of bodies. The target took them down.

The torch, for part of the fall, was tangled among arms and legs, then free of them. The way up the rockface, easy enough in daylight, moderate at dusk and difficult in darkness had been possible for Jonno who knew a route. Not for those men . . .

And the window? Not long. There were groans below him. Dislodged stone and earth still dribbled into the scrub at the bottom of the sheer rock wall. The sirens were clearer.

He had done what he could.

He should have felt good. He started to come down.

He knew the foot- and handholds. His target and those who'd followed him up had plunged off the rockface and into the scrub. They were back at a start point beside the entrance to the garden at the Villa del Aguila. The torchbeam showed them to Jonno.

He had to catch the window, be through it before it slammed . . .

They'd left him, the bastards.

He could hear them above him, and the stones in free fall.

The Major remembered the football, playing the game. The torch was underneath him or they would have taken it. He didn't cry out because that would have shown weakness. Pain racked him his ankle was probably broken. He had the torch in his fist and the beam was weak. He saw his men climbing, and another shape, loose and indistinct, that seemed to pass them as it came down. It moved easily, with smooth balance, and was lost in the undergrowth. There was silence.

He pulled himself up on the stile, and clutched the torch. They had played football in a lay-by on the road out of Pskov they had stopped the car because Ruslan needed to piss . . . or it might have been Grigoriy. The Gecko had been left in the back of the vehicle. Either Ruslan or Grigoriy had found the mannequin, broken and dumped, but with the head on it. The Major could not have said what had started the game that afternoon but they had laughed and acted stupid. Either Ruslan or Grigoriy had recalled it that evening on the hill above Budapest. And the little goluboy it was obvious what he was from the moment they'd started watching him had fought to protect the bag chained to his wrist. There had been nothing effeminate about him. They had kicked him to put an end to his struggles. They had kicked men in Afghanistan would have kicked men in Chechnya if they'd been there. They'd kicked his head because he was too fucking slippery to hold. They'd kicked him hard. Sympathy? No. Shame? No. Anger? Yes: they had kicked him, silenced him, battered the fight out of him, but couldn't open the case. They had sawn off his arm then found the key at his neck. And the case had been empty.

There had been no blow-back. He had heard no more of the matter. There had been no quiet calls from the apparatchiks, or from old colleagues now at desks in FSB. He had seen the face confronting him as he struggled for the last heave on to the ledge: a young face. He understood, as he had groped towards it, that he was accused because of the football game. He did not know who had stamped on his hand . . . All around him was the quiet.

His warrant officer and his master sergeant had abandoned him. They had gone into the night. He couldn't see Pavel Ivanov or the Serbs, who were wanted for murder. He could see the dog. It wouldn't desert him. He didn't know its name so he whistled, and saw the ears come up.

He started to crawl down the path that led through the undergrowth and went towards the hut. Beyond it were the lawn, the dog and the light. The pain came in rivers.

She stood behind him and leaned across his shoulder. Her arms were outstretched, one hand covering his, and she steadied the main body of the Dragunov ahead of the telescopic sight. Her right hand was over his fist and touched the finger that rested on the guard.

Under her hands there was faint movement and she knew the sight followed the man. He was on his stomach. She thought his left ankle was askew, which meant he had broken it, but he had not shouted or screamed.

He was past the hut. Her breast was against Sparky's ear. Nothing was said. The cross-hairs would be tracking him.

Her hands covered his loosely. She thought Sparky was in torment.

He was in the garden, skirting the shrubs that the flight lieutenant (ret'd) had not pruned, and was near the cat's grave when he heard the shot.

There was a crack. It kicked the quiet, then was gone. He thought the sirens were closer and that little time remained before the window slammed.

He ran to the kitchen door. He didn't switch on any lights but groped his way into the hall. His bag was there, with Posie's and Sparky's, in a neat little line close to the front door. Posie was coming down, carrying the rifle. She was rubbing at it vigorously with a hand towel. Between her fingers there was a small sack of ammunition. Jonno took it all from her.

He went back through the kitchen, out into the garden, crossed the long grass and slipped under the trees and shrubs between the properties. It had all been planned. He did not argue with the instructions Posie had brought back from the telephone call. Ahead of him he saw the lights that burned high and bright over that garden. He would never see it again. He might remember it when he was unable to sleep at night, what had happened there.

He threw the rifle over the wall, heard the clatter as it landed, then tossed the ammunition after it. He kept hold of the towel as he doubled back.

He passed the little grave for the last time.

Inside the kitchen, he locked the back door, put the key on the hook where they had found it a lifetime ago. The others were at the door and held it open for him. Jonno closed it, locked it and put the key under the same plant pot where it had been left for him. He took a deep breath and turned.

They went down the path, Jonno leading, Sparky sandwiched between them, and slipped away in shadow to the left when they hit the chippings. There were three or four police wagons with the lights turning in front of the big wall. Some were working with a crowbar to open the locked front gates.

They were in the shadows, wraiths and ghosts. Opposite the empty villa's gates was the short-cut track that kids staying might have used, or staff. It plunged down the steep slope where the road had been cut out for the development, and they were in thorn, scrub and bramble. Some of the ground beneath their feet was still loose from the excavations. They slid and stumbled but kept the pace. Jonno thought Sparky had Posie's arm, and when he hesitated and looked into the blackness for a route out it was Sparky who, without ceremony, pushed him on. He would never forget them, ever: he reckoned the conspiracy had bonded them. They crossed a ditch filled with cardboard boxes, compacted, rubbish bags and builders' waste. Jonno was on his hands and knees going up the far side and into the light of a streetlamp, Sparky hauling Posie after him. They were on tarmac.

The pavement was wide enough.

Jonno organised it: Sparky was between them, his arms locked through Jonno's and Posie's he was fitter than either of them. They jogged. More police vehicles went by them, sirens blaring, and an ambulance. It was a clean street, with lanes running off it and through the mass of small white-painted homes. Sparky set the pace.

Across the road were the bus station and the taxi rank. They ran to a cab, climbed in and Posie did the business.

Distance: thirty-six miles. Journey duration: around thirty minutes. Price: negotiable. A ripple of euros made the young driver's eyes water. They filled the back seat and the rucksacks were on their knees as they made their strategic withdrawal, fast.

Few would have seen him because he kept to the shadows at the side of the building, but the entrance was well lit and he had a good view of it and of the car park.

Many would have heard him. The family of Gonsalvo, officer of the state's internal intelligence-gathering organisation and occasionally managing matters of organised crime, had pleaded with him to reduce his nicotine intake. To have demanded that he give up and sign a pledge not to go back to it would have been hopeless. He was gaunt and thin but his brain worked well. He was able to make judgements as to what was in the ultimate interests of his country, and what was not. Such a judgement had caused him to call his colleague, Dawson, from the capital's airport and brief him. Such a judgement, also, had brought him far south to the backwater of La Linea and its Customs and emigration building. As he started to cough the headlights caught him. There was the squeal of tyres on a turn, then the scream of brakes.

He saw the plates, knew it was their taxi.

Stepping from the shadows, he intercepted them.

Easy for Gonsalves to see which was the marksman and which the young man who had come for a winter break. The message Dawson had given to the girl was that if they arrived before the schedule lapsed they would be met.

He held out his hand, flicked his fingers for them to hurry, and they gave him the passports.

A smile played on his lips. They were a sight they'd raise eyebrows. He walked them inside. No others were doing the crossing at that time of night. He held up the passports, showed them to the single official at a desk, and to the Guardia Civil girl. He walked them back out into the night and led them to where the white line crossed the road. There was one more building to go through, with a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II. The one of Juan Carlos I was behind them. The coughing caught him again, and when he had straightened he pointed beyond the building: it was floodlit, and waited. No record that they had passed emigration at La Linea, gateway to Gibraltar, existed.

He seldom spoke other than to his dog. He did not believe it necessary to warn the three that what was in the past was a matter for extreme discretion: others would do that later and reinforce the message with bribes and threats of penalties. What the three had achieved humbled him, and would humble many others.

They were gone. He walked back, lit another cigarette, and hacked. He felt satisfied.

'About fucking time . . .'

The engines had started.

They were in a line. Kenny had the aisle, best leg room, Dottie beside him, and Winnie Monks had the window seat. They had been on board for half an hour already. No drinks served, no snacks. Dottie said they weren't going anywhere yet because the doors were still open. She'd shrugged, and Winnie Monks's impatience was building. There was bustle and movement by the door. In their hearing, a stewardess said to her colleague, with exasperation, that 'they' were here 'at last' and 'now perhaps we can get in the air'. Winnie wondered who could delay a commercial flight for . . .

She saw them.

A young man, unshaven, filthy, torn clothes, blood on his face, trailing a rucksack. She might have exploded if she hadn't seen Sparky following, with the look of a man bowed by what he had endured; his gaze flitted right, left, and down the aisle. If he had seen her he showed no sign of it, but his eyes were bright. The girl walked well, had poise: a bloody good thing because she might have come off a building site at the end of a hard day, then run through barbed wire. Her bare legs were slashed, her dress was torn, and her hair was knotted, but she blazed with defiance. They had seats against the bulkhead far down the aisle . . . It would have been Dawson who'd held an aircraft until the death rattle of an operation. The bloody Six people always had style that Five couldn't match, damn them.

Winnie Monks, a frown furrowing her head, had slipped the safety-belt catch and was half out of her seat, but rose no further: Dottie had pressed a hand into her lap. She subsided.

'Not our show, Boss. You should leave them. Not our show because we quit on them.'

Jonno was asleep before the aircraft lifted.

And the next day . . .

The director general said, 'I've heard a bit about this, Winnie, and I'm not really in the mood to learn more. There's a big world out there, and the opportunities are varied and rewarding for an individual of talent and commitment. My suggestion is that you seize the chance being offered you. There'll be a financial settlement to cover the disruption in your life that I assure you will be beyond our usual limits. On or off the record I couldn't possibly comment on the events of last night in southern Spain . . . May I change the subject matter? It's raining cats and dogs out there, November, but I had my driver drop me off at Parliament Square and walked the rest. Lunatic, of course, but I had a spring in my step. Know what I mean? We're now servants to Health and bloody Safety and Human Rights but we cut our teeth on Cold War escapades and sharp-end adventures in the Province. We're grateful to you for having wound back the clock. Thank you . . . We'll miss you, Winnie, but it's for the best.'

There was sleet in the air and the clouds were dark and stacked. There had been rain during the night and a light sprinkling of hail. The two junior staffers from the Budapest embassy stood on the sodden grass. One held the bouquet and the other read aloud the message received from London. The instructions of where they should be and where the flowers should be laid were specific. Neither had ever heard the name of Damian Fenby, nor knew that an intelligence officer Winnie Monks of Five had stood at almost that exact spot less than two weeks before. The card on the flowers read, Damian, Never forgotten. With love from your friends on the Graveyard Team. They were close to a pretty statue in rough-cast bronze that showed a young woman standing beside the head and shoulder of a newborn foal, life size. The flowers were laid on the grass close to the statue, and it was likely that the sleet, when it came, would destroy the precise arrangement. They stood for a moment, in ignorance of whom they honoured, then turned and hurried for their car.

The deputy director general, at a lunchtime meeting, brief, without sherry, coffee or biscuits, said to the man they called the chief, 'It was you who signed this one on, Barney, so I suppose it's best that you draw the curtain on it. A report for the archive, please, when the dust's settled. I'd like it on my desk by midsummer.'

The Latvian policeman said, 'I'm going to do my best but you can see this is a celebration night in the Blue Bottle. I think I'll have to fight like a street hooligan to get to the bar. So good of you to come here tonight, Dottie . . . there'll be no questions, no embarrassment for you. It's good enough for us that Petar Alexander Borsonov is dead and that Pavel Ivanov is in flight. Two major groups are disrupted, but Borsonov, the Major, is a high-value casualty. You were here, and briefed on him, so we believe we played some small part in his destruction. It's a rare evening for us, and welcome. We're grateful to you for coming and sharing it with us.'

And the next week . . .

Geoff and Fran Walsh were dropped by the taxi at the front gate. While the driver unloaded the bags from the boot, they stared up at the neighbouring gate and saw the punctured voice grille and the broken camera above it. Tacked to the wall beside the gate was a for-sale sign, and a further sheet of cardboard carried the message that all furniture and fittings would be included in the purchase. The driver carried the bags to the front door, then went on his way. While he balanced on his hospital sticks, she bent to retrieve the key from under the pot, opened the front door and went inside. She walked through the hall, the kitchen and the living room while he stood on the step and drank in the view from his home. She said, 'That boy and his girl, they've left the place impeccable, so clean. Bad news about poor old Thomas, running out of lives, a lovely cat. Anyway, we're home, and you wouldn't know that anyone had been here. I hope they had a good holiday.'

The first snow of the winter had fallen in Pskov, and many came to the funeral. A full religious service was performed in the derelict church, smartened and spruced for the occasion. There was, of course, the family, and they appeared to be grieving dutifully, and there were the colleagues from his military times, Grigoriy and Ruslan, who had sensibly given up the laptop to investigators of the Federal Security Bureau. There were dignitaries from the town hall, too, and the fundraising committee for the children's hospital. Men had come from Moscow and St Petersburg and showed reverence. It was not a killer who was mourned, or a prime player in organised crime, or a punter who went with the more attractive whores of Constanta, Bratislava or Plovdiv, but a patriot who had served his country with honour. A portable organ competed with a throbbing generator, and its notes wafted to the ceiling's holes through which flakes fell . . . The church secretariat had guarantees that promises would be honoured and a fine farewell was given him, with eulogies.

And the next summer . . .

Aggie was in bed, predictably, with a book, when the chief reached home in the suburbs. It was late but still almost light, and the evening was warm, pleasant after the heat of the day in London and the sealed carriage on his train. That afternoon he had, as asked, drawn the curtain and delivered his report to the deputy director on events in Budapest and an incident in the Costa del Sol town of Marbella. His supper was a salad, left on the kitchen table, and there was an open bottle of Frascati in the refrigerator. He ate slowly and drank a touch more freely than was usual for him . . . He'd survive, hang on by his fingernails, keep his head below the parapet for his remaining years, not make waves. But he felt no satisfaction at the conclusion of the work, and he was anxious about what he had seen that evening when he had left Thames House and done the short detour before heading towards the bridge, the station and his train. He'd talk to Aggie that night. His tongue would have been loosened by the wine, and she'd let him spit it, get it off his chest or try to. He put his plate, the cutlery and the glass into the dishwasher, did the lights and the alarm, then climbed the stairs, old memories jostling him. In the bedroom he kicked off his shoes and sat on the bed. Aggie set aside her book.

'Well, old girl, I've chopped the beast down and slain it. It's inside a decent-looking folder in the DD's safe and, hopefully, very few will get sight of it. There are lessons . . . Initial enthusiasm is not a good trigger for executive action. The desire to right a wrong is natural and should have been resisted with greater firmness than I showed. This one has altered all of us. I think I'll last out my time but I'll be on the periphery of decision-taking. I'll eke out the days till the pension's due and few will know why but all will understand that I'm tainted. It seemed such a good idea, a cause worth latching on to, when we launched. I said "all of us" and "altered". The surveillance team were Snapper and Loy we've dropped them. They did nothing fundamentally wrong but they obstructed policy which puts them off the field. They'll work for Anti-terrorism Command but not again for us. However, I hear they were commended after the Bailey case, which finished last week, the Bangladeshi boy and the homemade pyrotechnic gear. Done in private after the court was cleared, they were said by the judge to have been "very professional" and a "credit to your calling". But they're out of our bailiwick. So, the Graveyard Team . . . Little Miss Dottie was transferred to The Hague and does our liaison with Europol. She's stuck at a desk, moving paper, for three more years. I think you met Kenny at one of those leaving bashes could have been David's or Mary's. Anyway, he's dumped back in that section where all known life expires, checking expenses claims. I'm told he gets to work somewhat later and leaves a bit earlier than when he did organised crime. Xavier you saw him at Duncan's party is at the Yard and has gone native. I don't believe he's been back inside Thames House this year. He's cut himself off and behaves like a policeman, not one of us. Then there was Caroline Watson. She played a small part she was on the edge of decision-taking and declined to speak to me. She didn't refuse but always seemed to be on leave or up to her nose in life-shattering work. We're getting there, old girl . . .'

'And Mad Monk?'

'All in good time . . . please. The Russian end first. The killer, the Major, where it all started, was removed as a corpse to the mother country, and we reckon they have a line of like-minded, similarly talented people prepared to step into his boots and do the nation's unpleasantness as, at the end of the day, did we, but in a slightly more amateurish fashion than they'd have found acceptable. The owner of the adjacent property, Pavel Ivanov, is believed to be holed up in Moldova, suffering severe cabin fever. He made an attempt to relocate to Israel, with a substantial cash transfer and a protective arm, but influence was exercised and he was blocked. We talked to a lawyer he used in Marbella, clever and careful. Rafael has extricated himself and smells of roses. He may stand for the mayor's parlour next year . . . Patience, old girl . . . Isaac Jacobs and Myrtle Fanning were at the heart of events on that last evening. They, in effect, played the role of beaters and drove the birds on to the guns. More accurately, they created the panic and were motivated by revenge for the killing of Mikey Fanning, old-time east-London gangster and long-term fugitive from the attentions of the Central Criminal Court. He was a best friend, she was the widow. They made a full and frank statement, and all legal matters that might have confronted them have been dropped in the UK. They were married last month by the consul in Malaga. They were vital and rather brave. And, of course, as far as the wider world was concerned they were never involved, neither were any of our people, or the waifs and strays we attracted on the journey. Gangland feuding. Two Russian clan leaders competing. A Russian-built rifle was found in the gardens, and ammunition to go with it, dumped in the flight. The forensics showed it was the weapon that killed the Major. As a version, it was bought hook, line and sinker. So, the Mad Monk. She had the good sense to take a generous package and make herself scarce.'

'There was huge talent?'

'I'd hazard that Winnie Monks had the ability to head a branch. I'm not saying she was director-general standard, but next down the ladder. I take responsibility, but was only the functionary who initialled the expense claims dockets. She was the individual who made it happen. She disappeared. Apparently a man had slipped into her life, the Six fellow from Madrid. He's Dawson don't know whether that's the family name or the given one. He ditched his career. They've bought a bunk house in the Hebrides one of those outer islands, I'm told . . . God, we miss her. I saw her in Fort William you remember when I went up. She'd little to say for herself, and he didn't show. She chatted about eagles and otters, red deer, sheep dips, stone-age archaeology and the back-packers who come to them. She's moved on. Lucky her. It was something that smacked of being old-fashioned, and I doubt it will happen again. Then there were the three who were at the heart of it . . . It's their story. Others intruded, Winnie in particular, but they determined what happened. I don't want to go on. We played God with them, and may be cursed or worse.'

It was weeks since he had attempted to interview them and then he had posed the question, simple and straightforward: 'What happened at the end?' He'd invited them to the coffee shop at the side of Thames House, believing they'd be more relaxed there than in a police-station interview room or, separately, at their homes. They'd smiled in his face, and none had answered him. He'd seen them that evening, and had felt the responsibility weighing heavily on him. He'd stayed back, hadn't intruded.

'Which of them fired the shot, I don't know. I can make assumptions but have no certainties. They made a wall of fog, and I can't penetrate it. Each of them looked at me in a different way but sent the same message. It wasn't my business or anyone else's but theirs what happened when they looked into the face of the man they had condemned. It was a secret they shared, and I'm in ignorance of the sequence that led to the moment that man was killed. But for all that they harbour the detail, I have to field responsibility.'

'But you thought it worthwhile? You thought it mattered?'

He began to undress. 'I did. But it's an unequal struggle. The war against counterfeiting, narcotics trafficking, or the pimps controlling the underage girls, money-laundering bankers and legal fraudsters has none of the glamour of the anti-terrorism crusade. We're doomed to second place and needed the help of outsiders. Which is why I may be damned beyond redemption. Sorry, old girl. Thanks for hearing me out. I saw them this evening and it's left me disturbed . . . A new day tomorrow. We won a victory, not that it will be claimed but a price was paid. A high one.'

They sat on the same bench almost every weekday evening.

It was the one where Winnie Monks, never spoken of, had held court, and it offered a good view of the garden that had been a graveyard. The bench was beside the stone commemorating the life of C.H.R. Cass Esq., a master mason, deceased in late May 1734. It had been a week after they had returned that the first meeting had taken place . . . Sparky swept winter leaves at the end of a working day, as a cold dusk gathered and office workers surged on the pavements carrying gaudily wrapped Christmas gifts. Posie, coming from work on a bus, entered the gardens hesitantly. Jonno had taken the Underground, not knowing what he would find. The barrow loaded with leaves in the black sacks, the rake and the broom had been abandoned. Posie's rucksack and Jonno's attache case had been dumped beside the bench. They'd sat on it, and their arms had gone round each other. There was no need for talking. They were there, together, most evenings. There had been snow, ice, the spring evenings when the crocuses were up and the daffodils came into bud, and there was the warmth of summer. Always Sparky sat in the middle, between them, Posie on his left and Jonno on his right. They never examined what had happened. That was the way, they had decided, that healing would take place. In the quiet of the gardens each could confront their own actions, and the consequences. That evening was good, and birds were noisy in the trees. They had stayed late and long after the gates had been locked. When they parted and Sparky opened the gates for them, the promise was implicit that they would be there the next evening because the wounds were too deep to be ignored. Then they would go their way and attempt, separately, to live their lives.