The road they were taking ran round the side of the hill towards Weybrook. There was little traffic on it now. The light seemed to be fading rapidly from the sky ahead. The little finger began to crawl round unwatched as Gordon thought of Eve’s last words: ‘the years I’ve still got to live.’

He said at last: ‘I’m sorry.’

The small, flawless bell rang clearly.

‘Sorry? Oh, Gordon, you don’t know what it means! It isn’t something you can be sorry for, like treading on a cat’s tail. When you find something – horrible – like me, the only possible kindness is to ignore it. Praise my accomplished raffia-work, and my zealous preparations for a life everlasting (when the blind shall see and the lame be made whole!) – but don’t be sorry for me. You have some imagination, Gordon. Think how you would be yourself. Think of never driving again – of being alive and knowing you would never drive again. And ask yourself if sorrow and pity can do anything but hurt.’

The little finger had crept to 50. Gordon saw it, and began to ease it back. But the excitement was mounting in his brain, and his hands and feet moved of their own volition. The road tilted round the hill away from Bullcaster and he saw the full moon floating in the air, still wan in the lingering twilight. The little finger pressed on 50. He felt power surging in him, communicated from the throbbing engine; power to outrun the winds, power to kill and maim.

Beside him Eve moved, leaning forward to look at the moon.

‘I love full moons,’ she said. ‘They’re so – complete.’