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round to look through the window. The man was in profile now, studying the window of the Halal butcher’s on the corner as if choosing a meal. The face was pale above the beard, with a curving nose repeating the curve of the high forehead. Nothing special.
    â€˜You must go down to the school crossing and speak to Jim,’ said Mrs Jinja in her gentle, toneless voice. ‘He is good. There were boys making racial remarks to Farah and her friends when they left school. Jim dealt with them.’
    â€˜That’s an idea. Thanks.’
    She went back to the main road, turned right and right again into Starveling Lane. Jim was at the crossing waiting for school to end. She had never spoken to him but knew him by sight, a stolid-moving, pink-faced middle-sized man. She knew his name because according to Darlene at the play centre he’d saved some child’s life on the crossing last term, something to do with a skidding motor-bike. He was standing by the beacon with his lollipop, but seeing her turn the push-chair for the crossing he came into the road, though there wasn’t a moving car in sight, and signalled her to cross, accompanying her back to the far pavement. She slowed her pace to prolong the time for talk.
    â€˜Thanks,’ she said. ‘Mrs Jinja told me to come to you. There’s a man been following us—Toby he’s after. Jeans, green jersey, coat over his arm.’
    He didn’t hesitate in his stride, look back or question her.
    â€˜Spotted him,’ he said. ‘Straight into the school, through the swing doors. Right, and all the way along the passage. Takes you out past the school office at the senior entrance. Have a good look round soon as you’re out. If he’s there, back into the office and tell Trixie as I sent you. She’ll call the police.’
    They had reached the far pavement and stood facing each other. His pale greyish eyes gazed confidently at her.
    â€˜That’s marvellous,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much.’
    â€˜Don’t you worry, love. I’ll sort him out.’
    He upped his lollipop and turned to recross the road. She pushed into the school, opened only two years back after the fire, now bright-coloured and angular, like a bit of play apparatus for a brood of giants, but already pocked and scarred with the abrading tide of children that sluiced in and out each day. As she turned at the top of a ramp to buttock her way through the swing doors she could see Jim on the far pavement, facing her follower, the embodiment of sturdy civic decency.
    Toby had finished the crisps and fallen asleep. The main corridor was almost empty. The feel of a new academic year just started hung in the air. A few older children scurried past with loose-leaf folders. No one questioned her. From the classrooms came the stir and scuffle of books being stuffed into desks, equipment being cleared, chairs reordered. A boy held the far door for her. Out in the street the follower was nowhere to be seen.
    She pushed home through side-streets. Since Jim had confronted and presumably accused the man she felt there was no harm in turning suddenly at random to look behind her, until it struck her that to passers-by she might look like a batty old woman running off with someone else’s child. There was no way of not crossing Belling Road. If he’d gone back to wait for her there he’d be difficult to spot amid the shoppers. She crossed it and took a roundabout way back to Abdale Grove, pausing on corners to check behind her.
    3
    Too tired to cook but pleasantly on the edge of wooziness after the second gin, Poppy opened a can of mackerel fillets, cut up the last of the Chinese leaves, spooned on oil and vinegar and told herself it was a healthy meal. What had she done? Walked a mile or so further than usual. Why should fright and anger make her feel as though she’d crossed half a county, physically fought a troop of men, to bring Toby