They stand singly or in small groups, by the wall, waiting for the action to begin. The thump of the beat is not so loud here. But the air is dense and viscid and connects them to each other, so that he feels a man could push him over without touching him. There are certain things Hawthorn wants to do. There are things he doesn’t want to do. The line between these things tickles him, like the bead of sweat down his back. His mind imagines situations. Certain situations. Certain possible conjunctions. Certain pictures arise in his mind, and he flits from the pictures to the scene in front of him, and constructs paths from here to there, across the pulse of the drums and the thick air. He doesn’t trust his mind. He knows how it’s supposed to be done. At a signal they move away from the wall. They move towards the others. It is always a confrontation. It is always a stand-off. Hawthorn is shoulder to shoulder with men like himself. He is eye to eye across the air. He is picking out certain faces.
