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‘I’m involved with an organization, a pressure group. We campaign against discrimination, work on rights issues.’
    ‘You produce a magazine?’
    ‘Not me. I write for it, but I’m not the editor.’ 'People who work for pressure groups sometimes make enemies,’ he said. His voice was deep with a barely discernible vibrato which set up a wandering echo within her, caused a momentary constriction in her throat.
    'We have disagreements,’ she told him. ‘Some blind People don’t want to rock the boat, they accept whatever crumbs the sighted world deems fit to leave at the table. We discuss such things, we argue about attitudes.’
    ‘But you’re not militant?’
    ‘Militant.’ She thought about the word. It was not one she would normally associate with herself. It conjured up an image of a woman with a Kalashnikov. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We aren’t militarists.’
    ‘But not pacifists, either?’ he said.
    ‘We’re reformers, Mr Turner. We’re not violent. The blind have made certain gains in the last few years. If you’re very determined, it’s possible to be blind and independent. The organization I belong to defends the' rights we have won and does what it can to improve our lot. Not long ago, the destiny of a blind person was to sell matches on a street corner. We are not prepared to go back to that. We are not Uncle Toms, but neither are we terrorists. If we leave out armed combat, I suppose you I could describe us as a militant reformist organization. What are you getting at?’
    ‘Have you heard anything from Isabel?’
    ‘No. It’s not like her to go away without telling me.’
    ‘Are you worried?’
    ‘Yes, but I think she’ll get in touch today.’
    ‘I hope so,’ said Sam. ‘Listen, you tell me that someone is watching you. I need to know if anyone has a motive to harm you. If you’ve upset someone. From what I hear, you belong to a bunch who don’t believe in keeping their light hidden under a bushel.’
    ‘You think I’m being followed by a blind man?’
    ‘I didn’t say that. I’m looking for motives.’
    ‘Because it may’ve escaped your attention, Mr Turner, but it wouldn’t be easy for someone without sight to follow me around. Unless, of course, this is one of the fabled blind men who, when he went blind, immediately found his other senses gained superhuman proportions. His hearing is so sensitive he can hear the fleas on his dog, and he can sniff out a drop of Rochas Tocade behind a girl’s ear from the other side of the street.
    ‘OK, I might well have upset someone in the blind community. It’s just possible that I could have upset someone with a psychopathic personality. A dormant, sleepy blind man, who has now been roused into murderous insanity by my militant reformism. But I don’t see how he’s going to have much luck stalking me.’
    Sam Turner was quiet. He walked over to the nest of tables where she kept the liquor bottles. There was the rustle of cloth as he bent to inspect them: whisky, vodka, Spanish brandy. Then he said, ‘Do you ever listen, lady?’
    Usually she would have asked him to leave at that point, but she held back. The man was uncouth and insensitive. A typical sighted male, the kind of man who grabbed you and pushed you across the road whether you wanted to go or not. Someone who suddenly discovered he could do a good deed and leave you stranded and disoriented in the middle of town. ‘I’m listening, Mr Turner,’ she said, and caught the after-taste of that superior tone that had lurked around her vocal cords most of her life, returning time after time, no matter how often she thought she had banished it for good.
    ‘That’s the first thing,’ he said. ‘Nobody calls me Mr Turner. The name’s Sam, take it or leave it. And seeing we’re hitting it off so good, I don’t suppose you’ll mind me calling you Angeles, though I might be tempted to shorten it from time to time.
    ‘The second thing is, I never met anybody who was