A TALE OF A TRUMPET HE WAS ALONE in the bed when he awoke. There was a note on the pillow. GONE TO REHEARSAL. IF I DON’T SEE YOU DURING THE DAY, SEE YOU TONIGHT? He smiled and rolled out of bed to make some leisurely coffee. He drank it at the window, looking down on shoppers and tourists, foreshortened by the distance, scurrying like crabs across the dark cobbles of the Lawnmarket. He thought of Anna’s brown body with its bikini streaks of white, and felt good. The cynicism which normally attended his sex life was not there. An exceptional girl. Willy Mariello’s death became less important. Rehearsal for an opening in four days’ time, on the other hand, was important. He finished the coffee and set out for Coates Gardens. Martin Warburton was sprawled over a camp-bed in the men’s dormitory, reading. Reading So Much Comic . . . , Charles noticed with annoyance. The boy looked up as he entered. His expression was calmer than usual and he was even polite. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be reading this.
