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wanted to finish packing he had been sincere; but now he felt sleepy and drunk. The room was hot and stuffy. He turned the gas fire off, and opened a window. Before undressing, he swallowed three dyspepsia tablets with a glass of milk. The sheets felt pleasantly cool. He yawned in the dark, and stretched in the bed, experiencing intense sensual satisfaction from the contact of the sheets. He thought of Nunne flying to Switzerland, and felt a faint envy, which he immediately suppressed. Sleep came quickly and easily.
     
     
    CHAPTER TWO
    HE LIKED the new room. When the boxes had been unpacked, and the radio and record player were arranged on the chest of drawers, it seemed smaller than he had anticipated. A fire escape ran past the window, which looked out on a piece of waste ground and on a church. He had also the use of a small kitchen that was probably a converted lumber-room. It was reached by a narrow flight of stairs opposite his door: he was to share this with a Frenchman who lived in the next room.
    The move exhausted him. He had awakened without a hangover, but feeling tired and dry-mouthed. When he had finished arranging the room, he felt the sweat running down his sides and along his thighs. He set a kettle to boil on the gas ring; he could hear the thump of his heart, and the roar of the traffic in the Kentish Town Road. The bed stood under the open window; the breeze cooled him. He fell into a doze, and was awakened suddenly by the whistle on the kettle.
    He made tea in a two-pint thermos flask, and poured it out through a strainer. He put a record on the gramophone, then sat down at the table, staring at the glowing nipples of the gas fire, sipping the tea. Someone tapped on the door; he called: Come in.
    The man who opened the door said: I hear we are to be neighbours and share the kitchen.
    Come in, Sorme said. Would you like a cup of tea?
    Thank you, I would.
    The French accent was not strong, but quite perceptible. Sorme stood up, holding out his hand.
    My name’s Gerard Sorme.
    Edmond Callet. How do you do?
    Do you mind sterilised milk in your tea?
    Not at all.
    He took the whisky-cap off the sterilised milk bottle that he had brought from Colindale; the milk was three days old. He turned down the volume of the gramophone. The Frenchman asked: What is it? Prokoviev?
    Yes, the fifth symphony. Do you like music?
    Very much. I used to play the oboe in the orchestra in my home town. Lille.
    But you’re not a professional musician?
    Oh no. I’m an engineer.
    When he smiled, he showed a mouthful of regular, white teeth. He had a handsome face, with a square, powerful jaw. Sorme found himself liking him instantly. Callet sat opposite him, in the armchair.
    I hear you’re a writer?
    Yes. Who told you that?
    Carlotte. The girl who cleans up. We have some strange tenants in this house. You have the worst one above you.
    The worst? Why?
    He’s mad. And he plays gramophone records all night.
    Christ! Does he thump around, though?
    No, I don’t think so. He just plays records. You won’t see him during the day. He sleeps.
    That’s all right. I sometimes work most of the night too. Do you object to the noise of a typewriter?
    No. I use one myself. The only person who might complain is the girl in the room underneath.
    I see. And who else qualifies as ‘strange’?
    The Frenchman made a puzzled grimace. Sorme explained:
    You said there were several strange tenants?
    Ah, yes. Well the old man above you is the worst. There are two homosexuals who live on the ground floor. They won’t bother you. They sometimes quarrel all night. They are all right except when they are drunk. Then they get noisy.
    Doesn’t the landlady object?
    No. She doesn’t live here. The German girl is supposed to keep an eye on the place. Carlotte. She lives in the basement.
    The record came to an end. Sorme turned the player off. Immediately, they heard the sound of someone knocking on the door of the next room. The Frenchman opened the