It would nice to be home on time for a change even if Jenny wasn’t there. Walking up Lansdowne Road, Stratton was hailed by Donald coming the other way, with someone he did not recognise in tow. ‘I called for you,’ he said. ‘Fancy a drink? Mr Ingram and I were just on our way to the Swan.’ Stratton looked at Mr Ingram, wondering if he was all right, or even all there. Jenny had said he was aggressive, but he could see no evidence of this, unless one counted the fact that the little man had the look of a punch-drunk boxer (flea-weight) who was trying to rise to the occasion without knowing quite what the occasion was. Presumably, there’d been some further upset over his wife. ‘How do you do?’ he said, playing for time. Donald, sensing hesitancy, grimaced at him over Mr Ingram’s head and telegraphed a ‘don’t-you-dare-let-me-down-you-fucker’ message with his eyes. ‘Why not?’ said Stratton. The pub was full to bursting, as it often was nowadays at the beginning of the week before the beer ran out.
