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red； were they being paid。
Ellis's timing had given me thirty seconds。 He'd sent me down too soon。 In the lobby I had no future。 Out in the open air 。。。 some。
Taking a couple of deep breaths； I shot out through the doors as fast as I could； and sprinted： and I ran not to the right towards my own car； but veered left round the van toward the open gates。
There was a shout from one of the blue figures； a yell from the second and I thought for a moment that I could avoid them； but to my dismay the gatekeeper himself came to unwele life； emerging from his kiosk and barring my exit。 Big man in another blue uniform； over…confident。
I ran straight at him。 He stood solidly； legs apart； his weight evenly balanced。 He wasn't prepared for or expecting my left foot to knock aside the inside of his knee or for my back to bend and curl like a cannon ball into his stomach： he fell over backwards and I was on my way before he struggled to his knees。 The other two； though； had gained ground。
The sort of judo Chico had taught me was in part the stylised advances and throws of a regulated sport and in part an individual style for a one…handed victim。 For a start； I never wore； in my private sessions with him； the loose white judogi uniform。 I never fought in bare feet but always in ordinary shoes or trainers。 The judo I'd learned was how to save my life； not how to earn a black belt。
Ordinary judo needed two hands。 Myoelectric hands had a slow response time； a measurable pause between instruction and action。 Chico and I had scrapped all grappling techniques for that hand and substituted clubbing； and I used all his lessons at Frodsham as if they were as familiar as walking。
We hadn't exactly envisaged no useful hands at all； but it was amazing what one could do if one wanted to live。 It was the same as it had been in races： win now； pay later。
My opponents were straight muscle men with none of the subtlety of the Japanese understanding of lift and leverage and speed。 Chico could throw me every time； but Yorkshire's watchdogs couldn't。
The names of the movements clicked like a litany in my brain…shintai； randori； tai…sabaki。 Fighting literally to live； I stretched every technique I knew and adapted others； using falling feints that involved my twice lying on the ground and sticking a foot into a belly to fly its owner over my head。 It ended with one blue uniform lying dazed on its back； one plaining I'd broken his nose； and one haring off to the office building with the bad news。
I stumbled out onto the road； feeling that if I went back for my car the two men I'd left on the ground would think of getting up again and closing the gates。
In one direction lay houses； so I staggered that way。 Better cover。 I needed cover before anyone chased me in the Topline Foods van。
The houses； when I reached them； were too regular； the gardens too tidy and small。 I chose one house with no life showing； walked unsteadily up the garden path； kept on going； found myself in the back garden with another row of houses over the back fence。
The fence was too high to jump or vault； but there was an empty crate lying there； a gift from the gods。
No one came out of any of the houses to ask me what I thought I was doing。 I emerged into the next street and began to think about where I was going and what I looked like。
Brown overalls。 Yorkshire would be looking for brown overalls。
I took them off and dumped them in one of the houses' brown…looking beech hedges。
Taking off the overalls revealed the non…existence of a left hand。
Damn it； I thought astringently。 Things are never easy； so cope。
I put the pink exposed end of arm； with its bare electrical contacts； into my left…hand jacket pocket； and walked； not ran； up the street。 I wanted to run； but hadn't the strength。 Weak 。。。 Stamina； a memory： a laugh。
There was a boy in the distance roller…blading； ing towards me and wearing not the ubiquitous baseball cap but a striped woollen hat。 That would do； I thought。 I fumbled some money out of the zip pocket in my belt and stood in his way。
He tried to avoid me； swerved； overbalanced and called me filthy names until his gaze fell on the money in my hand。
'Sell me your hat；' I suggested。
'Yer wha？'
'Your hat；' I said； 'for the money。'
'You've got blood on your face；' he said。
He snatched the money and aimed to roller…blade away。 I stuck out a foot and knocked him off his skates。 He gave me a bitter look； and a choice of swear words； but also the hat； sweeping it off and throwing it at me。
It was warm from his head and I put it on hoping he didn't have lice。 I wiped my face gingerly on my sleeve and slouched along towards the road with traffic that crossed the end of the residential street。。。 and saw the Topline Foods van roll past。
Whatever they were looking for； it didn't seem to be a navy tracksuit with a striped woollen hat。
Plan B…run away。 OK。
Plan C…where to？
I reached the end of the houses and turned left into what might once have been a shopping street； but which now seemed to offer only estate agents； building societies and banks。 Marooned in this unhelpful landscape were only two possible refuges a betting shop and a place selling ice…cream。
I chose the ice…cream。 I was barely through the door when outside the window my own Mercedes went past。
Ellis was driving。
I still had its keys in my pocket。 Jonathan； it seemed； wasn't alone in his car…stealing skill。
'What do you want？' a female voice said behind me。
She was asking about ice…cream： a thin young woman； bored。
'Er 。。。 that one；' I said； pointing at random。
'Tub or cone？ Large or small？'
'Cone。 Small。' I felt disoriented； far from reality。 I paid for the ice…cream and licked it； and it tasted of almonds。
'You've cut your face；' she said。
'I ran into a tree。'
There were four or five tables with people sitting at them； mostly adolescent groups。 I sat at a table away from the window and within ten minutes saw the Topline van pass twice more and my own car； once。
Tremors ran in my muscles。 Fear； or over…exertion； or both。
There was a door marked Gents at the back of the shop。 I went in there when I'd finished the ice…cream and looked at my reflection in the small mirror over the wash basin。
The cut along my left cheekbone had congealed into a blackening line； thick and all too visible。 Dampening a paper towel I dabbed gently at the mess； trying to remove the clotted blood without starting new bleeding； but making only a partial improvement。
Locked in a cubicle I had another try at screwing my wandering hand into place； and this time at length got it properly aligned and fastened； but it still wouldn't work。 Wretchedly depressed； I fished out the long covering glove and with difficulty； because of no talcum powder and an enfeebled right hand； pulled that too into the semblance of reality。
Damn Ellis； I thought mordantly。 He'd been right about some things being near to unbearable。
Never mind。 Get on with it。
I emerged from the cubicle and tried my cheek again with another paper towel； making the cut paler； fading it into skin colour。