The boy’s voice, clear as a bell, from Fishface’s rear. Don’t look. The old buzzard’s head half jerking on its stretched neck. Don’t turn round. Clear and firm, decided. The words fell. Look at the wall. The wall. Fishface’s ears where chill, extraordinarily sensitive to the air, as if sweating it. Yet deaf to any sound save the flow of the boy’s words. Delicate exact sentences. Deaf as his eyes were blind or seemed so, the wall before him a darkness in that it lay before his eyes, eyes facing in the opposite direction to that in which they longed to look. I’m behind you but don’t look, if you do I will be lost to you forever. It’s a little sacrifice I’ve cooked up for you. Fishface inspected the wall, he wasn’t certain he liked this. The boy pounced, tumbling over the old man from behind. The two rolled on the floor. Fishface, his one good eye tight closed in dread fear of this new madness. Would he regret letting this child into his life? He was laughing! I was only joking, the voice giggled, hidden somewhere behind the bleary and screwed tight eye, and slender fingers tenderly traced the line of old wrinkled lids and opened them. These games! Come on the boy said, smiling. Let’s get some air. I’ve been thinking. And they went off down the stairs, talking.