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street end, she was still standing in the doorway, a tall, solidly built woman in simple, straightforward clothes. Had she always wanted to become a nun, he wondered, one of those fantasies so beloved of little Catholic girls, one that most of them leave behind with their first period, their first real kiss? Or had something happened in a split second that had changed her life? Like walking into a room and finding yourself face to face with God?
    Next time, he thought, crossing toward the Boulevard, he just might ask. Next time. For now there was a colleague he could contact down in the smoke, someone who kept his ear well to the ground. And the secretary of the Polish Club would have connections with his counterparts in Kensington and Balham. Small worlds and where they connected, Grabianski might be found.

Five
    Hannah was wearing a Cowboy Junkies T-shirt, white with a picture of the band low over her waistline; if she hadn’t been wearing it loose outside her jeans they would have been tucked from sight. The Lay It Down tour, is that what it had been called? She remembered the way Margo Timmins had performed half of her numbers sitting down, hands resting across the microphone, a voice that was clear and strong, stronger than on their recordings. Unhurried. Hannah had liked that. Liked, too, the way she had prattled on between songs, seemingly inconsequential stories she felt needed telling, despite the hectoring calls from young men on the edges of the audience. Beautiful, also—but then they always were—Margo with her sculpted nose and perfect mouth, bare legs and arms. Well, women were beautiful, Hannah knew that.
    She reached out toward the mug of coffee she had made after she had showered and changed from school, but it had long grown cold. A handful of small boys, primary age, were playing football in the park, an elderly woman in a dark anorak was slowly walking with a lead but no apparent dog; the foliage was several shades of green. Beside Hannah, on the floor by her comfortable chair, were folders for her to mark and grade, fourth-year essays on soap opera—realism or melodrama? For tomorrow, there were lessons still to prepare, chapters of Hardy to reread, Lawrence short stories, poems by Jackie Kay, Armitage, and Duffy.
    Hannah folded her arms across her lap and closed her eyes.
    When she awoke, the telephone was ringing. Disorientated, she made her way toward it; although it had probably been no more than twenty minutes, she felt she had been asleep for hours.
    â€œHello?” Even her voice seemed blurred.
    â€œHannah? I thought perhaps you weren’t there.” It was Jane, husky and concerned.
    â€œHas something happened? Are you okay?” She had seen Jane in the staff room less than two hours before.
    â€œOh, yes, it’s this stupid thing.”
    â€œWhat thing?”
    â€œThis day school, what else?”
    Alex, Hannah had been thinking, something’s happened with Alex. Some monumental row. “I thought everything was in hand,” she said.
    â€œSo did I. There was a message when I got home. The film we’re meant to be showing— Strange Days —it looks as if it might not be available. Apparently the distributors saw some of the advance publicity about the event and got cold feet. They’re worried we’re setting it up as an easy target so it can be rubbished.”
    â€œOh, Jane, I’m sorry.”
    â€œI wish I’d never taken it all on.”
    â€œIt was a good idea.”
    â€œ Was is right.”
    â€œCome on, it’ll be fine. And, anyway, maybe they’ll change their minds.”
    â€œI suppose so.” There was a silence and then: “Hannah, would it be all right if I came round?”
    â€œYou mean now?”
    â€œNo, it’s fine. It doesn’t matter.”
    â€œJane …”
    â€œReally.”
    â€œJane.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œStop off at the off-license, okay?”
    When