Others by James Herbert Page B

already stretched out on towels on the pebbled beach, but these were probably office workers or hotel staff, catching the early morning heat before commencing duties for the day. Watching sky-weaving seagulls as I sipped lip-burning coffee at an outside table, I felt a calmness come upon me. I wasn’t at peace with myself - I’d never known what that was like - but at least the trauma of the previous night had settled, and the illusion in the broken mirror had become precisely that to my rational mind: an illusion caused by fragmented glass and embellished by the darkness of that windowless room. Why had it shattered completely at my approach? Easy. The former occupier had already smashed it and my footfalls had caused the final meltdown. I refused to consider the fact that I’d witnessed an explosion of glass - that just wasn’t part of my rationale on that warm civilized morning.
    A craft-shop owner gave me a wave as she opened her shutters, the young waiter who’d served me breakfast loitered for a friendly chat. As I climbed the steep ramp to the upper road, another acquaintance hailed me from the doorway of the Old Ship hotel. I returned a brisk salute and went on my way.
    Looking as I did, I was more noticeable than most around town, and hence had become part of its scenery, a familiar figure to the locals; and that was no bad thing in my line of work, because it made me well enough known to gain people’s confidence and so much easier for me to pursue enquiries. A lot of these people were eager to talk to me, either out of some guilt-ridden pity (there for the grace of God, and all that…), or because they were ashamed of the repugnance I aroused in them and felt noble when they were able to hide it. Maybe I’m being a little over-cynical here, but I can only explain the vibes I got from them. Some - a certain few - were unabashed at how I looked, and I received genuine warmth from them, while others - there’s always the opposite extreme to anything - never even tried to conceal their loathing of me. All in all, though, I was generally accepted and only the tourists and out-of-towners tended to give me the hard, or at best, discreet, stare. Kids were always a problem, but then I’d learned to accept that.
    Cutting through the Lanes, a pedestrian area of narrow turnings and alleyways filled with antique, jewellery and gift shops, I crossed a broad thoroughfare and turned off into the road that led past the old Regency theatre and the Royal Pavilion’s park opposite. The theatre’s display boards advertised an ‘all-new Rocky Horror Show!’, not quite my taste in live performance, but the kind of thing that brought in the holiday-makers and locals (especially the kids and weirdos) in droves; next week might be a Gilbert and Sullivan, or a murder mystery, or even a ballet. Variety, in the broad sense, is what kept the place going. My mood considerably brightened by the sunshine and ‘hail goodfellows’ along the way, I climbed the creaky stairs to the agency.
    ‘Okay,’ greeted Henry, who always seemed to beat me into the office, no matter how early I arrived, from his desk. ‘In which movie did Cary Grant say his male co-star resembled Ralph Bellamy and who was that co-star?’
    I groaned at the regular ritual, not quite ready for it so soon in the day. Nevertheless the answer came to me before I’d even reached my office door.
    ‘Easy,’ I told him with a smug grin. ‘His Girl Friday, and the co-star was Ralph Bellamy.’
    Henry wasn’t pleased. He went back to his paperwork, grumbling darkly under his breath.
    I went around my own desk and studied the day’s agenda, which I usually scheduled in a large diary before leaving the office the previous night. Ida would have gone straight to store duty and Philo, when he arrived in about half-an-hour’s time, breathless and over-heated from his dash from the bus stop and ascent of the stairs, would be busy for most of the day with an assignment that