Exit Wounds [antikvár]

ONEi.He called her his daughter, and continued so till the end. One thing was certain. She couldn't go where he was going.Victoria Station had made one small concession to modernity even though the trains still ran into it from the nineteenth century. At its eastern end there was a brand-new lavatory for gentlemen. A lavatory with a turnstile. To pass this turnstile, no matter how little else he wanted to pass, a man had to pay. So girls queueing nextdoor for Skytrain tickets or foodstuffs in poly-thene wraps could smile at the rattle of coins and the jingle of stilebars as in one small corner of England male after male was held to ransom by progress.Kay was in a hurry. The girl he called his daughter had no such need. She could ignore his rush towards the lavatory, but not his rebufF at the turnstile. She took time to give him a five p piece from her handbag.TH charge interest!' she promised. It sounded like a long-running family joke.By now there were three men behind him, blocking her view. They took the in-stile in quick succession. Or two did. One vaulted the gate.The vaulter was reproved by a Sikh with a rubber broom. The place was fiill of Sikhs with rubber brooms and dark turbans,