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already been written. ‘The key’s above the door,’ he said. ‘Take me in, settle me down.’
    The room had nearly as many books as my father’s shop, most of them open, as if he read a line here, a line there. A good stock of empty bottles too. We planted him in a chair, tugged off his boots and propped his feet up on a stool.
    Emlyn brought a blanket from the bedroom, and as he spread it over him he sang:

    You have a kind face you old bastard,
    You ought to be bloody well shot;
    You ought to be tied to a lamppost,
    And left there to bloody well rot!’
    Amos Ellyott giggled helplessly. ‘Thank you kind boys,’ he said, ‘and thank you for the Macaulay .’ He was snoring as we went out.
    â€˜What made you take him the book?’ I said when we reached the street.
    â€˜Found a copy of it at home. Least I could do. They’ve got the old bugger’s obituary notice written...’
    â€˜The trouble with you,’ I said, ‘is that you’re too bloody pleasant.’
    There was a mist down, already an occasional bray from the sirens of the big ships out in the estuary.
    â€˜It’s a mortuary this place,’ I said. We sat on a bench on the promenade, the mist forming around us, and Emlyn talked about smoky clubs and night people and coloured lights and music.
    Not everyone in Maelgwyn had settled down for the night. Out of the mist, dressed in a polo necked sweater and shorts, MT Edmunds came running.
    â€˜Philip, Emlyn, how wonderful!’ He was running on the spot as he talked. ‘I’m killing two birds with one stone!’ He showed us a bundle of posters. ‘Keeping fit and spreading the word. The revival of the town! The Carnival day, the Sports Day – a poster on every lamp post. We don’t expect anything too brilliant this year, but no matter. To begin is enough.’ And he went on like that, and I remembered someone saying that MT was thick as two short planks and that even his wife had stopped feeding money into the business.
    â€˜Must be off,’ he cried out. ‘Like fire in the lungs, this air. Good night to you boys!’ He went off at a sprint.
    â€˜He never asked about Mash,’ Emlyn said. ‘I wonder if word’s getting around?’
    â€˜Keeping an eye on the situation, you mean?’
    â€˜Could be. My dad says that business is running down. My dad says that old Georgie Garston is all set to buy MT out.’
    â€˜Knows everything, your dad.’
    Emlyn laughed. ‘That’s why the old bugger went bankrupt.’
    Tuesday night, the dead night of the week. Made for a visit to Lilian and her soft, fat fingers dealing out the cards. But that wasn’t possible any more.

IV
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    Mash had an arm lock on Emlyn’s neck. He was swinging him around above the black mud. Emlyn’s face was purple, his eyes staring, glazed. There was blood on them both, and I stood there and did nothing.
    That day we had all been taken with a need for work and applied ourselves to the Ariadne . I was up on deck, caulking yet another seam. I could hear them chatting below me on the mud, and I was thinking how close they had always been, a private understanding between them. And I heard a shout, sounds of a struggle, and thought that Emlyn had started ragging about. There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing, and I went over the side to look.
    It was minutes before I realised what was happening. And all I could do was shout, ‘Hey Mash! For Christ’s sake put him down! You’re killing him!’
    I grabbed Mash’s arm and tried to break the lock. His muscles were steel hard. I kicked at his shins. ‘Let go you stupid bastard!’ I hit him in the kidneys, as hard as I could, and he grunted and sent me sprawling with one sweep of his free hand. I picked myself up off the mud and went skidding back to them. Emlyn was still conscious,