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him, and made for Victoria Street to collect the spare keys. At the top of Vauxhall Bridge Road, where Italian cafés shared space with shops selling kitchen equipment and bicycle spare parts, there was, he knew, an employment agency. The prospect of Paris at the end of the week made him bold.
    ‘A youngish man,’ he told the woman behind the desk. ‘Not too young. To live on the premises—I can supply a flat. All he has to do while I’m away is clean the place up. The flat
and
the shop. You’ll take up references, I suppose?’
    ‘I’ve got just the person for you,’ she said, surprisingly. ‘He said he’d look back this afternoon. I could send him round to you.’
    ‘What’s his name?’
    She consulted a card. ‘Thomas Cook.’
    It was an omen. He sped up to Victoria Street, and sped back again, to await the arrival of Thomas Cook. To give himself something to do, he typed a notice saying ‘Closed for Stocktaking’. He then sat tensely, waiting for the agent of his deliverance to appear.
    At five o’clock, when he was almost ready to forget the whole business, when Thomas Cook, if he existed, seemedquite possibly a further figment of his imagination, the door opened and a fragile-looking youth of about his own age entered, with an air of being immediately at home. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and appeared to have no possessions: at least his hands hung idly by his sides. His expression was amiable, if slightly witless: he might have been the character in the fairytale who is sent out on a long and hazardous journey, to return only after some years to claim his reward. Harrison looked at him with some perplexity. Cook seemed singularly unfitted for work of any kind. However, he had turned up; that was something. And now impatience took over; he could not bear to prolong this process any longer.
    ‘Do you think you could take care of this place for a couple of months? Clear up, and so on? There’s a flat upstairs—did they mention that at the agency?’
    ‘Yes. That’s what decided me, really. I’ve only just arrived in London, you see.’
    ‘Where from?’
    ‘The Isle of Wight. My parents live there.’
    He had parents, to whom he was willing to refer. That, surely, was a good sign.
    ‘I may have to engage someone permanently, of course.’
    He felt that this was the kind of pompous remark he was expected to make.
    ‘That’s OK.’
    ‘I’ll be gone for a month or two,’ he said daringly. ‘You can move in straight away, if you like. Just tidy up as best you can. A lot of these books can go in the basement. You’ll need cardboard boxes from somewhere. Leave the shelves free—I’ll decide what to do with the books when I come back. Familiarise yourself with the layout. I’ll pay you in cash, if you like.’
    ‘I’d prefer a cheque,’ was the prim reply.
    ‘Really? Are you sure?’
    ‘I’m saving up for a car.’
    ‘Whichever you prefer. I’ll leave a float for supplies, soap, etc. Tea,’ he added.
    Cook listened to Harrison’s by now febrile plans without due enthusiasm, but seemed unsurprised by them. At the same time his large eyes ranged round the shop. Fleetingly he gave an impression of competence.
    ‘This will be my number in Paris,’ said Harrison, writing it down. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to manage?’
    ‘Can’t see why not.’
    ‘Buy whatever you need,’ Harrison cried, edging his way out of the door. If he hurried he could just manage to buy his ticket for France at Victoria. He was aware of obeying his destiny. If Thomas Cook decided to burn the place down he would accept the fact calmly, and without blaming himself. On the other hand if, with the assistance of Thomas Cook, he managed to transform the shop into something relatively viable he might be prepared to address the problem of making it pay. He would be a shopkeeper, but first he would be liberated. The late afternoon air was humid, hazy. Inhaling it deeply he set his face towards Victoria, and