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a storm-force wind. You never fly a kite in a small hurricane, if you want to keep it.”
    It wasn’t a small hurricane—that was an exaggeration, and he threw in the “small” so you’d be distracted into thinking he was being accurate—it was just a bit on the stormy side.
    â€œEr, thanks,” said Hal again.
    â€œRightio, then,” said Tweedledeedum. “And by the way, your kite needs a tail. Helps to stabilize it, you know. Cut along home, now, both of you, and don’t talk to any more strangers.”
    We had, of course, completely forgotten we weren’t supposed to talk to strangers, and this one definitely qualified as strange. I slapped my hand across my mouth to keep from laughing, but I could see he knew I was giggling—I couldn’t help it, it was the way he talked. He shook his head gravely, as if he was disappointed in me, but he bowed
almost imperceptibly again, and then he whistled to his dog (though the dog was right there at his feet all the time) and continued on calmly with his walk.
    We watched his back view as he sailed along like a giant iceberg in men’s clothes. The wind flapped frantically at the edges of his jacket, and his tie flew out first on one side and then on the other, but he just ploughed implacably forward. After a few moments, as a particularly nasty squall of wind blew up, he bent down and picked up the little dog and tucked him in between his elbow and his body, and on he continued until he was out of sight.
    â€œThat was a close one,” I said to Hal as we walked off.
    â€œYeah, I was afraid it might disintegrate up there,” he said.
    â€œIt wasn’t the kite I was worried about,” I said. “It was you.”
    Hal stopped walking and looked at me. “Me?” he said incredulously. “Why me?”
    â€œBecause you were on the end of the string,” I said. “You were going to be yanked out to sea at any minute.”
    â€œNo, I wasn’t,” said Hal. “I hadn’t a notion of it.”
    â€œYou didn’t need to have a notion of it,” I said. “It was the wind that had the notions.”
    â€œNot at all,” said Hal again, but he had a secret little grin on his face. I think he was pleased that I’d been worried about him.
    He is a daft old thing.

Chapter 6
    H al had not forgotten about his life-changing plan. This was the deal, right: Larry was to leave a message on Alec’s voice mail after office hours on Friday evening. Hal had written the whole thing out.
    One thing you need to know, by the way, is that Alec is a painter. Not an artist—a housepainter. My dad says he makes loads of money at it, but people always think that about other people’s jobs, don’t they? Anyway, that’s what he does, and he has a little white van and overalls that are all multicolored from the different paints he’s spilled on them over the years.
    This is how the message went, the one Larry was supposed to leave on Alec’s mobile:
    Hello, Mr. Denham, Balnamara General here, Clem Callaghan, maintenance manager. We have a painting job, bit of a rush on it. We need you here first thing in the morning, double rates, no, sorry, triple rates because of the bank holiday weekend. Now, this is where you have to go …
    Then came directions about what he was to do when he
arrived at the hospital. Something about turning right past the physiotherapy department and a long, low building with a green door, and then something about how the paint would be there, no need to bring any.
    That was it. That was the master plan that Hal was so proud of. He was going to get Alec to paint a long, low building behind the physiotherapy department at the local hospital. Well, big deal! That was really going to get Alec out of his life, right?
    I don’t think so.
    â€œI’m not doing it,” Larry said flatly, when he saw the speech.
    For once I could see his