tand。〃 〃I wonder if you do。〃 Somervale drew on his cigarette； still not turning around。 〃I wonder if you understand just what kind of freedom you've chosen…〃 Marty wasn't about to let this kind of talk spoil his escalating euphoria。 Somervale was defeated； let him talk。
〃Joseph Whitehead may be one of the richest men in Europe but he's also one of the most eccentric； I hear。 God knows what you're letting yourself in for； but I tell you； I think you may find life in here a good deal more palatable。〃 Somervale's words evaporated； his sour grapes fell on deaf ears。 Either through exhaustion； or because he sensed that he'd lost his audience； he gave up his disparaging monologue almost as soon as it began； and turned from the window to finish this distasteful business as expeditiously as he could。 Marty was shocked to see the change in the man。 In the weeks since they'd last met； Somervale had aged years； he looked as though he'd survived the intervening time on cigarettes and grief。 His skin was like stale bread。
〃Mr。 Toy will pick you up from the gates next Friday afternoon。 That's February thirteenth。 Are you superstitious？〃 〃No。〃 Somervale handed the envelope across to Marty。
〃All the details are in there。 In the next couple of days you'll have a medical； and somebody will be here to go through your position vis…à…vis the parole board。 Rules are being bent on your behalf； Strauss。 God knows why。 There's a dozen more worthy candidates in your wing alone。〃 Marty opened the envelope； quickly scanned the tightly typed pages； and pocketed them。
〃You won't be seeing me again；〃 Somervale was saying； 〃for which I'm sure you're suitably grateful。〃 Marty let not a flicker of response cross his face。 His feigned indifference seemed to ignite a pocket of unused loathing in Somervale's fatigued frame His bad teeth showed as he said： 〃If I were you； I'd thank God； Strauss。 I'd thank God from the bottom of my heart。〃 〃What for 。 。 。 Sir？〃 〃But then I don't suppose you've got much room for God； have you？〃 The words contained pain and contempt in equal measure。 Marty couldn't help thinking of Somervale alone in a double bed； a husband without a wife； and without the faith to believe in seeing her again； incapable of tears。 And another thought came fast upon the first： that Somervale's stone heart； which had been broken at one terrible stroke； was not so dissimilar from his own。 Both hard men； both keeping the world at bay while they waged private wars in their guts。 Both ending up with the very weapons they'd forged to defeat their enemies turned on themselves。 It was a vile realization； and had Marty not been buoyant with the news of his release he might not have dared think it。 But there it was。 He and Somervale； like two lizards lying in the same stinking mud； suddenly seemed very like twins。
〃What are you thinking； Strauss？〃 Somervale asked。
Marty shrugged。
〃Nothing；〃 he said。
〃Liar；〃 said the other。 Picking up the file； he walked out of the Interview Room； leaving the door open behind him。
Marty telephoned Charmaine the following day； and told her what had happened。 She seemed pleased； which was gratifying。 When he came off the phone he was shaking； but he felt good。
He lived the last few days at Wandsworth with stolen eyes； or that's how it seemed。 Everything about prison life that he had bee so used to…the casual cruelty； the endless jeering； the power games； the sex games…all seemed new to him again； as they had been six years before。
They were wasted years； of course。 Nothing could bring them back； nothing could fill them up with useful experience。 The thought depressed him。 He had so little to go out into the world with。 Two tattoos； a body that had seen better days； memories of anger and despair。 In the journey ahead he was going to be traveling light。
8
The night before he left Wandsworth he had a dream。 His nightlife had not been much to shout about during the years of his sentence。 Wet dreams about Charmaine had soon stopped； as had his more exotic flights of fancy； as though his subconscious； sympathetic to confinement； wanted to avoid taunting him with dreams of freedom。 Once in a while he'd wake in the middle of the night with his head swimming in glories； but most of his dreams were as pointless and as repetitive as his waking life。 But this was a different experience altogether。
He dreamed a cathedral of sorts； an unfinished； perhaps unfinishable； masterpiece of towers and spires and soaring buttresses； too vast to exist in the physical world…gravity denied it…but here； in his head； an awesome reality。 It was night as he walked toward it； the gravel crunching underfoot； the air smelling of honeysuckle； and from inside he could hear singing。 Ecstatic voices； a boys〃 choir he thought； rising and falling wordlessly。 There were no people visible in the silken darkness around him： no fellow tourists to gape at this wonder。 Just him； and the voices。
And then； miraculously； he flew。
He was weightless； and the wind had him； and he was ascending the steep side of the cathedral with breath…snatching velocity。 He flew； it seemed； not like a bird； but； paradoxically； like some airborne fish。 Like a dolphin…yes； that's what he was…his arms close by his side sometimes； sometimes plowing the blue air as he rose； a smooth； naked thing that skimmed the slates and looped the spires； fingertips grazing the dew on the stonework； flicking raindrops off the gutter pipes。 If he'd ever dreamed anything so sweet； he couldn't remember it。 The intensity of his joy was almost too much； and it startled him awake。
He was back； wide…eyed； in the forced heat of the cell； with Feaver on the bunk below； masturbating。 The bunk rocked rhythmically； speed increasing； and Feaver climaxed with a stifled grunt。 Marty tried to block reality； and concentrate on recapturing his dream。 He closed his eyes again； willing the image back to him； saying e on； e on to the dark。 For one shattering moment； the dream returned： only this time it wasn't triumph； it was terror； and he was pitching out of the sky from a hundred miles high； and the cathedral was rushing toward him； its spires sharpening themselves on the wind in preparation for his arrival He shook himself awake； canceling the plunge before it could be finished； and lay the rest of the night staring at the ceiling until a wretched gloom； the first light of dawn； spilled through the window to announce the day。
9
No profligate sky greeted his release。 Just a monplace Friday afternoon； with business as usual on Trinity Road。
Toy had been waiting for him in the reception wing when Marty was brought down from his landing。 He had longer yet to wait； while the officers went through a dozen bureaucratic rituals； belongings to be checked and returned； release papers to be signed and countersigned。 It took almost an hour of such formalities before they unlocked the doors and let them both out into the open air。
With little more than a handshake of wele Toy led him across the forecourt of the prison to where a dark red Daimler was parked； the driver's seat occupied。
〃e on； Marty；〃 he said； opening the door； 〃too cold to linger。〃 It was cold： the wind was vicious。 But the chill couldn't freeze his joy。 He was a free man； for God's sake； free within carefully prescribed limits perhaps； but it was a beginning。 He was at least putting behind him all the paraphernalia of prison： the bucket in the corner of the cell； the keys； the numbers。 Now he had to be the equal of the choices and opportunities that would lead from here。
Toy had already taken refuge in the back of the car。
〃Marty；〃 he summoned again； his suede…gloved hand beckoning。 〃We should hurry； or we'll get snarled up getting out of the city。〃 〃Yes。 I'm here…〃 Marty got in。 The interior of the car smelled of polish； stale cigar smoke and leather； luxuriant scents。
〃Should I put the case in the boot？〃 Marty said。
The driver turned from the wheel。
〃You got room back there；〃 he said。 A West Indian； dressed not in chauffeur's livery but in a battered leather flying jacket； looked Marty up and down。 He offered no weling smile。
〃Luther；