hardly helping matters. D’you mind? Busner says, taking out a packet of Gold Leaf, and Michael, picking up his pipe, says, Of course not. Scratching a match, leaning into its. . flare path, Busner’s. . Whitley nose zooms over the dirty breakfast crocks. You must, he puffs, forgive the mess. . Appearances can be, um, deceptive — we try to alleviate distress here with mutual assistance, we’re seeking new ways of living, and if it seems we aren’t running a very, um, tight ship, it’s only because the residents expend most of their energies on mutual —. Gourevitch, the American psychiatrist with curly red hair and apish sideboards, who’d welcomed Michael with similarly nervy platitudes, now interrupts: I think Mister Lincoln is pretty up to speed on our kinda ethos, Zack — he’s set up several communes of his own, you’ve heard of the Lincoln Homes, right? Busner puffs, Ah, yes. . of course — for disabled ex-servicemen, aren’t they? Michael thinks: I’d like to drill these bloody hippies in short-sleeve order, then give this Busner chap a two-five-two and slap him in the glass-house. . But he only says, meekly: That’s right, I try to do my bit. Rather than responding, Busner turns to Gourevitch and asks, Where’s Podge? Giving him a shifty look, Gourevitch replies, Chill out, Zack, Lesley’s babysitting her. Busner doesn’t seem at all reassured — he fidgets with his matches, scratching open and scritching closed the tray, before, with a heavy sigh, beginning one-handed to roll and unroll the end of his tie, a tic Michael at once realises. . is his habitual comforter. There’s a heightened pressurised atmosphere in the poky kitchen that Michael can’t identify the cause of — clearly he’s walked in on something. . I hope there’s nothing wrong with the boy . . I shall, he says, have to insist on seeing Christopher at the very least. I need to make sure he’s all right — I’ll want to interview him. . in private. — Abruptly the older mentally ill American, who’s been slouching by the gas cooker, talking the whole time in a barely audible monotone. . Lakeland stream tumbling over stones . . pulls himself to attention, snapping his heels, crack! and exposing the map on the wall behind him. Michael remembers. . that intel’ officer, Phelps. — He was given to such dramatics: whipping the sheet off the map-stand as he announced the target for that night’s op’: Gentlemen, you will proceed to Bremen, and with the blessings of Jove — annihilate it! The American is certainly old enough to have served, but his military bearing is. . preposterous given his bare, hairless and hollow chest is hung with. . mad medals: a tin opener-cum-corkscrew, a Japanese transistor radio, amulets of some sort, all of them tangled up with chains and thongs in a lurid cravat. He snaps: Yes, sir, yes! Lieutenant Claude Evenrude reporting, sir! I will fetch the prisoner from the stockade right away, sir! He stamps about-turn and marches out. Gourevitch tips back on his chair, his leather jacket squeaks as he passes his hands over his glistening forehead. . Why the blazes is he sweating? and, stifling a yawn, says, Claude Evenrude is a very damaged individual, Mister Lincoln — he witnessed terrible things during the war, maybe the most terrible thing there is. Michael says nothing — he has his pipe to attend to. . it’s an alibi, really. Gourevitch goes on: Things that made Claude so very angry he took up the only arms he had in the cause of justice — his pen, his voice, his spirit. He became determined, Mister Lincoln, to expose the power-mongering lies of the warmongers —. Rodge, Busner breaks in, really — I think that’s quite enough, um, mongering. Mister Lincoln isn’t here to hear about Claude — or hear from Claude for that matter. Gourevitch says, I was only explaining, Zack, I truly believe Mister Lincoln should hear about these things, after all it’s men of his generation who dropped the bombs, who perpetrated the real madness —. Rodge! Busner is more than simply exasperated: Mister Lincoln has had plenty of experience with those damaged by the war — you said so yourself. I think it’s fair to assume he’s on the side of the angels, and I’m bloody well certain the last thing he needs is a potted lecture from you. — The instant coffee Gourevitch made him really was stirred with pathetic inadequacy. The bitter film coating Michael’s tongue and the roof of his mouth is in some obscure way of a piece with the phantom skiffle-boys, whose t-tinking of spoons on cups and plates. . Well-if-you-ride-it-you-gotta-ride-it-like-you-find-it . . it takes him several confusing seconds to realise, is actually being produced by a tube train drumming past along the embankment behind the house, a juggernaut that although invisible is nonetheless of this world. . while I’m on the side of the angels. He finds the posturing of these men both absurd and contemptible, yet the habit of conciliation is so ingrained that he says, Please. . gentlemen, I don’t think anyone can pull rank in these matters — there’s no high moral ground to be found on others’ suff erings. I’m also sure what we all want is the best for Christopher. Absolutely, Gourevitch says, he’s a great kid. Busner nods sagely. Michael takes a deep breath and pushes on, although it’s proving increasingly heavy going: the. . props of my mind are feathering . . and glancing to either side he sees not the disturbed psychiatrists but. . skin angels! flying in a bee hive formation, wind humming through their s hredded wings as they shepherd me towards the target . . Michael continues smoothly enough, albeit through gritted teeth: Knowing him as I do I often think what Chris would really benefit from is some carefree sexual experience. . At this Busner and Gourevitch come. . back into focus: as he suspected, this faintly outrageous remark has grabbed their prurient attention.Yes, some carefree sexual experience — he’s basically a good chap and a sound one, but he’s socially isolated and he doesn’t think much of himself. He needs some self-worth — more to the point, some vim. Now, there’s a very nice girl whom he knows — she works for a solicitor in Worthing, and Chris has met her several times when he’s come down to visit his father, who — as he’s probably told you — stays at my place there. Well, this girl’s very interested in Christopher. . and I’m sure she would — if only he’d. . ask. . Michael stops. His smoothness has deposited him. . in the rough! He’s said too much! and too loudly! Because the tube has sailed away and in its wake the silence has surged back, bringing with it. . this shipwrecked soul: the Kid, who stands in the doorway. The creepy American looms over Kit’s hunched shoulder, his mouth open. . He’s always hungry — he feeds on discord . . and shouts, Hup! Twoop! Threep! Four! First squad to the rear — march! Second squad to the rear — march! Then, as Kit shuffles into the kitchen, the American sings: With a step that is stead-y and strong, the Campfire Girls march a-loong! Kit’s fringe fills his sunken eyes, his bitten fingers are bandaged in his muslin shirt cuffs. He says, Hullo, Uncle Mike — but he’s scarcely audible because the deranged American’s in full swing, marching on the spot and turning ninety degrees at a time, and, as he dizzyingly revolves, his barked self-commands — Rrrright turn! — punctuating his usual dirge: Well, if ’n they told us six was nine, why, we didn’t mind, Rrrright turn! And if they backed us up against the wall and spat in our faces, we took it — by golly, yes we did, Rrrright turn! It was a sight better than the bullshit at Wright-Patterson, where those good ’ol boys lay ’round drinking greasy dick, Rrrright turn! They cut off all of our hair but I didn’t care — put us in the Eden Roc, six to a suite, Rrrright turn! So humid in between kit inspections I’d put my goddamn undies in the icebox, Rrrright turn! — Lesley appears, furtively licking his lips, and says, Hey, Claude, best you come back to the cool vibes room, man — this is the hot vibes room. . Michael stands up and says, Now, come along Christopher, it’s high time you and I had a proper confab’. Busner sits staring at his cigarette, which has burnt down to its filter. The American runs on: I didn’t care, I weren’t no Willie-the-Weeper — I’d graduated Phi-Beta-Kappa while these bohunks were beating their meat in the barracks, Rrrright turn! — Busner snaps out of it, stubs out the butt and, getting up, says, Yes, yes, so sorry, Mister Lincoln. . He leads them from the kitchen into the living room, where Clive is still huddling on the floor among the detritus of last night’s fish supper. Busner says, Look here, Clive, Kit needs to have a private chat with his. . ah, friend — would you terribly mind giving them some privacy? Clive says, Oompah-lumpah, stick it up yer jumpah, then picks up a couple of the empty Worthington tins and does exactly that before getting to his feet and obediently clankling out the door. — Back in the kitchen Lesley has taken Busner’s seat at the table — he and a cowed Gourevitch are corralled by the Creep, who’s singing, I wanna have my coffee! I wanna have my biscuits hot an’ eight inches long! as he marches round them. Seeing Busner, he cries, Hup! Twoop! Threep! Four! but continues his circuit, shoving past the chair backs, his fists swinging. Zack places one. .