He was tired, not just his knees hurt now, his left hip sent splinters of pain up and down. He summoned Inskip and explained. ‘It’s Mission Hopeless,’ he said, ‘but they’re paying. Carry on, Number Two. Or is that Number One? No, I would be Number One, surely?’ ‘Number two,’ said Inskip, ‘is a crap in toddler talk.’ Anselm nodded. ‘I shouldn’t distrust my instinct for the language. Carry on, Number Two.’ In mid-morning, Inskip stood in the door, his egg head to one side. Anselm thought he saw a faint flush of blood in the pale skin. Also, Inskip was wearing a red T-shirt. He hadn’t noticed that earlier. Had fashion changed? Was red in the ascendant? Inskip said, ‘Would you like to listen to something, Number One? Number One being a piss.’ Anselm nodded, rose and went to Inskip’s workstation, sat beside him. ‘I’ve found this person,’ said Inskip. ‘In a company that’s doing closed-circuit TV trials in London. Roads, stations, shopping malls. The football.
