was on Trog’s sleeve and she was steering him away, back toward the young lad on the curb. The policeman muttered something into his radio, his hand on the drunk’s shoulder. Something about the uniform seemed to defeat him. But the boy suddenly swung round and spat on Trog’s jacket. “f**k you.”
There was a brief, shocked silence. Trog stiffened.
“Trog! Trog! Come on, give me a hand, yes? I need you.” Horley propelled him forward. When I caught sight of Trog’s face, his eyes glittered as cold and hard as diamonds.
“Come on,” said Horley, as they loaded the semicomatose lad into the back of the truck. “Let’s get out of here.”
• • •
He drove silently, Jane and I wedged into the front seat beside him. Horley cleaned the back of his jacket as he stared ahead of him, his stubbly jaw jutting
