He followed Brant out, avoiding Gladys’ eyes. It was dark in the street and rain fell heavily.
“I’m going home,” he said, water dripping off his long nose. “We’ll see Robo tomorrow.”
“Come on,” Brant said, jerking his words out as if they burned his mouth. “We’re going to see him tonight.”
“But I don’t know where he lives,” George returned.
“Let’s be sensible. We’re both getting soaked.”
Brant said an ugly word and walked on.
George went with him. He felt there was nothing else to do. Brant seemed to know where to go. He turned down a side street, lined with small, two-storey houses, and after a few minutes he stopped.
“That’s it,” he said, looking up at one of the houses. “He’s got a room there.” He pointed to a window on the top floor. Although the blind was drawn, they could see a light was still burning. “Come on,” Brant went on, walking up the worn steps. He put his thumb on the bell and kept it there.
George stood at his side, feeling the rain against his face and his heart pounding uneasily.
There was a shuffling sound beyond the door, and a moment later a fat old woman peered inquisitively at them. “’Ood’yer want?” she demanded, holding a dirty dressing-gown across her ample bosom. “Ringing the hell like that. You’d think the ’ole blooming ’ouse was afire.”