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him, Martin went out to where Adam waited on the stairs, frowning back at his visitor. “Marina’s been a bitch all morning,” he said. “It’s because they won’t let her spend the night with the tedious rugger-bugger she thinks she’s in love with.”
    From somewhere along the gallery above, they heard the abortive clunk and gurgle of a lavatory chain pulled four times before the water flushed. As Martin reached the head of the stairs a door opened and he was astonished to see the tall but slightly built figure of a black man come out. He was dressed in heavy corduroy trousers and a thick roll-neck Guernsey over which he wore a knitted cardigan with leather arm patches. Even so the smile on his broad-browed, heart-shaped face amounted to little more than a gallant shiver as Adam said, “Emmanuel, this is Martin – the new friend I was telling you about.”
    Martin shifted the mug to his left hand and took the slender hand that was held out to him. The grip was strong. Adam turned to Martin. “This is Emmanuel Adjouna. You can talk at lunch. He’s working with my father right now.”
    The African’s smile widened. “You have fallen among good friends, Martin. In this place only the rooms are cold. Adam my dear, I think I would have died by now if not for these excellent trousers and sweaters you lent me.” And he burst into a hoarse laugh. Martin found it impossible to say how old this man was. He wanted to laugh with him. Aware of the mug steaming in his hand, he said, “This tea might warm you up. I don’t really want it.”
    â€œThank you, but I have this.” Grinning, the African took a flask from his back pocket. “From Russia, where they know how to banish cold. You like to try some vodka?”
    At that moment a door further along the landing opened. A bluff voice called, “What’s going on out here?” and a burlyman with a strong, romanesque head and a broken nose stared out at the gathering on the gallery. “That for me?” he asked, and took the mug of tea. “Good, I’m gasping.” He sipped at the mug, held it away from his pugilist’s jaw, studied Martin for a moment, and said, “I’m Hal. This is my house. You’re very welcome.” Before the visitor could respond, the big man – he was taller than Adam, more vigorously built – turned to the African, muttering, “We’d better push on, old son, or we’ll never have you in Government house.” Then he went back into his study.
    With a wry grimace Emmanuel Adjouna winked at the two young men and followed his friend. As the door closed behind him, the telephone in the study rang once and was again immediately answered.
    Adam’s was an attic room, up a further winding stair. Under the eaves by the dormer window, he bent to plug in a two-barred electric heater, pointed Martin towards a steamer chair that had seen better days and threw himself onto the plump eiderdown of the single bed. Above his head was pinned a Cubist poster from Le Musée d’Art Moderne. Martin took in the shelves stacked with books, the many Penguins in their orange livery with the white stripe; the leaning rank of records, many LPs among them; the slimline desk with its swivel chair; the air of inviolable privacy. He tried to clear his mind of envy.
    â€œWhat are they doing?” he asked. “Your dad and his friend, I mean.”
    â€œOverthrowing the British Empire.”
    When Martin snorted and glanced away, Adam said, “You don’t believe me?”
    â€œSure!” Martin got up and crossed to the dormer window, where he gazed out at the swollen sky over Sugden Clough.
    â€œYou haven’t heard of my father?” Adam said.
    â€œShould I have?” Martin turned and saw him balancing something on the thumbnail of his right hand. Light glintedbriefly off an old silver coin as Adam flicked his thumb, sent