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might bring to all of us； I thought； that afternoon of hope and ordinariness was an anchor in reality； an affirmation that small lives mattered。
It wasn't until after she'd fastened both children into the back of her car to drive to the hospital that Linda mentioned Ellis Quint。
'That trial is on again tomorrow； isn't it？' she asked。
We stood in the chilly air a few paces from her car。 I nodded。 'Don't let Rachel know。'
'She doesn't。 It hasn't been hard to keep it all away from her。 She never talks about Silverboy any more。 Being so ill 。。。 she hasn't much interest in anything else。'
'She's terrific。'
'Will Ellis Quint go to prison？'
How could I say 'I hope so'？ And did I hope so？ Yet I had to stop him； to goad him； to make him fundamentally wake up。
I said； dodging it； 'It will be for the judge to decide。'
Linda hugged me。 No tears。 'e and see Rachel in her bubble？'
'You couldn't keep me away。'
'God 。。。 I hope。。。'
'She'll be all right；' I said。 'So will you。'
Patient TeleDrive took me back to London and； because of the fixed hour of Linda's departure to the hospital； I again had time to spare before meeting India for dinner。
I again ducked being dropped in Pont Square in the dark evening； and damned Gordon for his vigilance。 He had to sleep sometime 。。。 but when？
The restaurant called Kensington Place was near the northern end of Church Street； the famous road of endless antique shops； stretching from Kensington High Street in the south； up to Netting Hill Gate； north。 Teledrive left me and my overnight bag on the north…west corner of Church Street where I dawdled a while looking in the brightly lit windows of Waterstone's bookshop； wondering if Rachel would be able to hear the store's advertised children's audio tapes in her bubble。 She enjoyed the subversive Just William stories。 Pegotty； she thought； would grow up to be like him。
A large number of young Japanese people were milling around on the corner； all armed with cameras； taking flash pictures of each other。 I paid not much attention beyond noticing that they all had straight black hair； short padded jackets； and jeans。 As far as one could tell； they were happy。 They also surged between me and Waterstone's windows。
They bowed to me politely； I bowed unenthusiastically in return。
They seemed to be waiting； as I was； for some pre…arranged event to occur。 I gradually realised from their quiet chatter； of which I understood not a word； that half of them were men； and half young women。
We all waited。 They bowed some more。 At length； one of the young women shyly produced a photograph that she held out to me。 I took it politely and found I was looking at a wedding。 At a mass wedding of about ten happy couples wearing formal suits and western wedding dresses。 Raising my head from the photo I was met by twenty smiles。
I smiled back。 The shy young woman retrieved her photo； nodded her head towards her panions and clearly told me that they were all on their honeymoon。 More smiles all round。 More bows。 One of the men held out his camera to me and asked…I gathered…if I would photograph them all as a group。
I took the camera and put my bag at my feet； and they arranged themselves in pairs neatly； as if they were used to it。
Click。 Flash。 The film wound on； quietly whirring。
All the newly…weds beamed。
I was presented； one by one； with nine more cameras。 Nine more bows。 I took nine more photos。 Flash。 Flash。 Group euphoria。
What was it about me； I wondered； that encouraged such trust？ Even without language there seemed to be no doubt on their part of my willingness to give pleasure。 I mentally shrugged。 I had the time； so what the hell。 I took their pictures and bowed； and waited for eight o'clock。
I left the happy couples on Waterstone's corner and； carrying my bag； walked fifty yards down Church Street towards the restaurant。 There was a narrow side street beside it； and opposite； on the other side of Church Street； one of those quirks of London life； a small recessed area of pavement with a patch of scrubby grass and a park bench； installed by philanthropists for the fort of footsore shoppers and other vagrants。 I would sit there； I decided； and watch for India。 The restaurant doors were straight opposite the bench。 A green…painted bench made of horizontal slats。
I crossed Church Street to reach it。 The traffic on Sunday evening was sporadic to non…existent。 I could see a brass plate on the back of the bench： the name of the benefactor who'd paid for it。
I was turning to sit when at the same time I heard a bang and felt a searing flash of pain across my back and into my right upper arm。 The impact knocked me over and round so that I ended sprawling on the bench； half lying； half sitting； facing the road。
I thought incredulously； I've been shot。
I'd been shot once before。 I couldn't mistake the thud。 Also I couldn't mistake the shudder of outrage that my invaded body produced。 Also 。。。 there was a great deal of blood。
I'd been shot by Gordon Quint。
He walked out of the shadows of the side street opposite and e towards me across Church Street。 He carried a hand…gun with its black round mouth pointing my way。 He was ing inexorably to finish what he'd started； and he appeared not to care if anyone saw him。
I didn't seem to have the strength to get up and run away。
There was nowhere to run to。
Gordon looked like a farmer from Berkshire； not an obsessed murderer。 He wore a checked shirt and a tie and a tweed jacket。 He was a middle…aged pillar of the munity； a judge and jury and a hangman 。。。 a raw； primitive walking act of revenge。
There was none of the screaming out…of…control obscenity with which he'd attacked me the previous Monday。 This killer was cold and determined and reckless。
He stopped in front of me and aimed at my chest。
'This is for Ginnie；' he said。
I don't know what he expected。 He seemed to be waiting for something。 For me to protest； perhaps。 To plead。
His voice was hoarse。
'For Ginnie；' he repeated。
I was silent。 I wanted to stand。 Couldn't manage it。
'Say something！' He shouted in sudden fury。 The gun wavered in his hand； but he was too close to miss。 'Don't you understand？'
I looked not at his gun but at his eyes。 Not the best view； I thought inconsequentially； for my last on earth。
Gordon's purpose didn't waver。 I might deny him any enjoyment of my fear； but that wasn't going to stop him。 He stared at my face。 He didn't blink。 No hesitancy there。 No withdrawal or doubt。 None。
Now； I thought frozenly。 It's going to be now。
A voice was shouting in the road； urgent； frantic； ing nearer； far too late。
The voice shouted one despairing word。
'Dad。'
Ellis 。。。 Ellis 。。。 Running across the road waving a five…foot piece of black angled iron fencing and shouting in frenzy at his father； 'Dad 。。。 Dad 。。。 Don't。。。 Don't do it。'
I could see him running。 Nothing seemed very clear。 Gordon could hear Ellis shouting but it wasn't going to stop him。 The demented hatred simply hardened in his face。 His arm straightened until his gun was a bare yard from my chest。
Perhaps I won't fee