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disgust with this fakery he was involved in. Yorkshire born and bred he might be, but his soul yearned for something that he had persuaded himself could still be found under other less chilly skies. Poor boy. He had the open hopeful look of one born to be disappointed. I yearned to save him from the shattering of his illusions. The canned music was growing louder and the dancing waiters who 'd been urging more and more customers to join their line were getting close to my table, so I tucked some coins into the leather pouch dangling from the boy's tunic, paid my bill and left. It was after midnight when the restaurant closed but I didn 't mind sitting in my car, waiting. There is a pleasure in observing and not being observed, in standing in the shadows watching the creatures of the night going about their business. I saw several cats pad purposefully down the alleyway alongside the Tavema where they kept their rubbish bins. An owl floated between the chimneys, remote and silent as a satellite. And I glimpsed what I'm sure was the bushy tail of an urban fox frisking round the corner of a house. But it was the human creatures I was most interested in, the last diners striding, staggering, drifting, driving off into the night, little patches of Stimmungsbild - voices calling, footsteps echoing, car doors banging, engines revving - which played for a moment against the great symphony of the night, then faded away, leaving its dark music untouched. Then comes a long pause - not in time but of time -- how long I don't know for clocks are blank-faced now - till finally 1 hear a motorbike revving up in the alleyway and my boy appears at its mouth, a musician making his entry into the music of the night. I know it's him despite the shielding helmet - would have known without the evidence of the bazouki case strapped behind him. He pauses to check the road is empty. Then he pulls out and rides away. I follow. It's easy to keep in touch. He stays well this side of the speed limit, probably knowing from experience how ready the police are to hassle young bikers., especially late at night. Once it becomes clear he's heading straight home to Corker, I overtake and pull away. I have no plan but I know from the merriment bubbling up inside me that a plan exists, and when I pass the derestriction sign at the edge of town and find myself on the old Roman Way, that gently undulating road which runs arrow-straight down an avenue of beeches all the five miles south to Corker, I understand what I have to do. I leave the lights of town behind me and accelerate away. After a couple of miles, 1 do a U-turn on the empty road, pull on to the verge, and switch off my lights but not my engine. Darkness laps over me like black water. I don't mind. 1 am its denizen. This is my proper domain. Now 1 see him. First a glow, then an effulgence, hurtling towards me. What young man, even one conditioned to carefulness by police persecution, could resist the temptation of such a stretch of road so clearly empty of traffic? Ah, the rush of the wind in his face, the throb of the engine between his thighs, and in the corners of his vision the blur of trees lined up like an audience of old gods to applaud his passage! I feel his joy, share in his mirth. Indeed, I'm so full of it I almost miss my cue. But the old gods are talking to me also, and with no conscious command from my mind, my foot stamps down on the accelerator and my hand flicks on full headlights. For a fraction of a second we are heading straight for each other. Then his muscles like mine obey commands too quick for his m-ind, and he swerves, skids, wrestles for control. For a second I think he has it. I am disappointed and relieved.
    All right, I know, but I have to be honest. What a weight - and a wait - it would be off my soul if this turned out not to be my path after all.
    31 But now the boy begins to feel it go. Yet still, even at this moment of ultimate danger, his heart must be singing with the