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begin to prise apart. Paolo is trying to speak! It is the faintest rustle – no more than a sigh – but there is no doubt that, after all this time, Paolo has broken out of the void and has something to say that has a greater claim than death. James strains even closer as the words emerge agonizingly slow: ‘I . . . love . . . you . . .’ James feels the flutter of a hand inside his own. Words stirring again: ‘Re . . . re . . . re . . .’ Unable to haul itself over the impossible summit of the word, his face falls back to nothing, eyes and mouth scalpel-slits in a carved mask.
    For James, though, the message is not lost. In his mind the words echo, urgent and fully formed: ‘Remember me.’ A last earthly request. James unwraps his hand from Paolo’s and bursts into tears. He will not,
must not
, ever forget.
    ■ ♦ ■
    Harrison sits on the bench under the big lonely tree and takes in the view. Safe. Whichever direction anyone came from, he would see them in good time. He takes out the joint, holds it up to eye level, reading in its smooth cylinder the craft he has invested in the making. He rolls it between finger and thumb and turns it to engage, his hand gliding machine-slow towards his mouth. White teeth behind dry lips close gently on the tip as he conjures a flame and draws on it, deep and easy, opening up the vault of his lungs to take in the last pocket of air in the world. First come the empty seconds, and then the release, the sleepy exhalation as crack steals silver across his senses. His amber eyes close, soft and dreaming; his mouth slacks to a wide ‘O’, and silky tendrils curl over the ledges of his lips to hang ghostly in the cold air. How hungry he is for this, how greedy for every last atom. If there is any magic in this world, it is here – begins here and so soon ends.
    For the moment, though, his mind has become a vessel so clear that he sees into and through everything, and everything is complete. And all that was ever harmful and hurtful in life is replaced with a sure knowledge of things and a total command over them. Harrison knows he would only have to push, in the right way and the right place, against that big old tree and it would surely go over. He would only have to stand up and put one foot in front of the other and he could outrun the fastest thing on two legs. All kinds of pleasing notions materialize and evaporate with each stolen breath, and for all of ten minutes, Harrison is cool and easy with the world, because even a troubled person has a desire for peace and the knowledge that he, too, has the right to possess it.
    But then something totally out of the blue announces itself, and he sits up with a jolt, his child-eyes widening in surprise. For into the oceanic expanse inside Harrison’s head has floated the biggest, bestest thought that ever came into any dude’s mind, and it makes him say out loud, ‘My God!’ There and then, he decides he will do it – he will surely do it! He jumps to his feet, totally taken up with his big idea.
    Here be the magic.
    ■ ♦ ■
    The Parade has long ended, the rows of marchers melted away after the final surge at 86 th Street, and the public spilling back through the floodgates of the streets to their quarters of the city and beyond.
    He is just about to take off his apron and send Benjy down to bring up new stock when he hears Grace over at the front say, ‘What the . . .?!’ He follows her gaze and is met by a sight so odd he actually rubs his eyes. There, sitting outside on the sidewalk opposite, occupying his appointed place, is Barrell the dog. Just sitting there watching them, his head dipped and motionless, his stare fixed and sorrowful, and not a sign, or even the faintest sniff, of Old Aunt Rosa. Michael steps to the door, with Grace scuttling up to his side. He stares at the dog, she stares at the dog, they stare at each other. It is all strange, unheard of.
    ‘This doesn’t look good,’ pronounces Michael, crossing