Moving pictures

'Never felt better, lad,' Dibbler said. 'Never felt better.'

He rubbed his hands together. 'Let's you and me have a little chat, man to man,' he added. 'Because, you know . . . ' he laid a friendly hand on Gaffer's shoulder, ' . . . I've a feeling that this could be your lucky day.'

And in another alleyway Gaspode sat muttering to himself.

'Huh. Stay, he says. Givin' me orders. Jus' so's his girlfriend doesn't have to have a horrid smelly dog in her room. So here's me, man's best friend, sittin' out in the rain. If it was rainin', anyway. Maybe it ain't rainin', but if it was rainin', I'd be soaked by now. Serve him right if I just upped and walked away. I could do it, too. Any time I wanted. I don't have to sit here. I hope no-one's thinkin' I'm sittin' here because I've been told to sit here. I'd like to see the human who could give me orders. I'm sittin' here 'cos I want to. Yeah.'

Then he whined for a bit and shuffled into the shadows, where there was less chance of being seen.

In the room above, Victor was standing facing the wall. This was humiliating. It had been bad enough bumping into a grinning Mrs Cosmopilite on the stairs. She had given him a big smile and a complicated, elbowintensive gesture that, he felt certain, sweet little old ladies shouldn't know.

There were clinks and the occasional rustle behind him as Ginger got ready for bed.

'She's really very nice. She told me yesterday that she had had four husbands,' said Ginger.

'What did she do with the bones?' said Victor.

'I'm sure I don't know what you mean,' said Ginger, sniffing. 'All right, you can turn around now. I'm in bed.'

Victor relaxed, and turned round. Ginger had drawn the covers up to her neck and was holding them there like a besieged garrison manning the barricades.

'You've got to promise me,' she said, 'that if anything happens, you won't try to take advantage of the situation.'

Victor sighed. 'I promise.'

'It's just that I've got a career to think about, you see.'

'Yes, I see.'

Victor sat by the lamp and took the book out of his pocket.

'I'm not trying to be ungrateful or anything like that,' Ginger went on.

Victor ruffled through the yellowing pages, looking for the place he'd got to. Scores of people had spent their lives by Holy Wood Hill, apparently just to keep a fire alight and chant three times a day. Why?

'What are you reading?' said Ginger, after a while.

'It's an old book I found,' said Victor, shortly. 'It's about Holy Wood.'

'Oh.'

'I should get some sleep if I were you,' he said, twisting so that he could make out the crabby script in the lamp light.

He heard her yawn.

'Did I finish telling you about the dream?' she said.

'I don't think so,' said Victor, in what he hoped was a politely discouraging voice.

'It always starts off with this mountain?'

'Look, you really shouldn't be talking?'