here, why all the palaver?
    "He's looking for a man who is nearing the end of his sentence. One who deserves, in 
both his and my own estimation, to have an opportunity to be reintroduced into society 
with a job behind him, and some self-esteem to go with it. Your case was drawn to my 
attention, Martin. I may call you Martin?" "Usually it's Marty." "Fine. Marty it is. 
Frankly, I don't want to raise your hopes. I'm interviewing several other candidates in 
addition to yourself, and of course at the end of the day I may find that none are 
suitable. At this juncture I simply want to ascertain whether you would be interested in 
such an option were it to be made available to you." Marty began to smile. Not outwardly, 
but inside, where Somervale couldn't get at it.
    "Do you understand what I'm asking?" "Yes. I understand." "Joe . . . Mr. Whitehead . 
. . needs somebody who will be completely devoted to his well-being; who would indeed be 
prepared to put his life at risk rather than have harm come to his employer. Now I 
realize that's a lot to ask." Marty's brow furrowed. It was a lot, especially after the 
six-and-a-half year lesson in self-reliance he'd had at Wandsworth. Toy was swift to 
sense Marty's hesitation.
    "That bothers you," he said.
    Marty shrugged gently. "Yes and no. I mean, I've never been asked to do that before. 
I don't want to give you some shit about me being really keen to get killed for somebody, 
because I'm not. I'd be lying through my teeth if I said I was." Toy's nods encouraged 
Marty to go on.
    "That's it really," he said.
    "Are you married?" Toy asked.
    "Separated." "May I ask; are there divorce proceedings in the offing?" Marty 
grimaced. He loathed talking about this. It was his wound; his to tend and fret over. No 
fellow prisoner had ever wrung the story out of him, even in those three-in-the-morning 
confessionals that he'd endured with his previous cellmate, before Feaver, who never 
talked of anything but food and paper women, had arrived. But he would have to say 
something now. They surely had the details filed away somehow anyway. Toy probably knew 
more about what Charmaine was doing, and with whom, than he did.
    "Charmaine and me . . ." He tried to summon words for this knot of feelings, but 
nothing emerged but a blunt statement. "I don't think there's much chance of us getting 
back together, if that's what you're after." Toy sensed the raw edge in Marty's voice; so 
did Somervale. For the first time since Toy had entered the arena the officer began to 
show some interest in the exchange. He wants to watch me talk my way out of a job, Marty 
thought; he could see the anticipation written all over Somervale's face. Well, damn him, 
he wasn't going to have the satisfaction.
    "It's not a problem-" Marty said flatly. "Or if it is, it's mine. I'm still getting 
used to the fact that she won't be there when I get out. That's all it is, really." Toy 
was smiling now, an amiable smile.
    "Really, Marty-" he said, "-I don't want to pry. I'm only concerned that we 
understand the full facts of the situation. Were you to be employed by Mr. Whitehead, you 
would be required to live on his estate with him, and it would be a necessary condition 
of your employment that you could not leave without the express permission of either Mr. 
Whitehead or myself. In other words you would not be stepping into unconditional freedom. 
Far from it. You might wish to consider the estate as a sort of open prison. It's 
important for me to know of any ties you have that might make such constraints temptingly 
easy to break." "Yes, I see." "Furthermore, if for any reason your relationship with Mr. 
Whitehead was not satisfactory; if you or he felt that the job was not suitable, then I'm 
afraid-"
    "-I'd be back here to finish my sentence." "Yes." There was an awkward pause, in 
which Toy sighed quietly. It took him only a moment to recover his equilibrium, then he 
took off in a new direction.
    "There's just a few more questions I'd like to ask. You've done some boxing, am I 
right?" "Some. A while back-" Toy looked disappointed. "You gave it up?" "Yes," Marty 
replied. "I kept on with the weight training for a while." "Do you have any self-defense 
training of any kind? Judo? Karate?" Marty contemplated lying, but what would be the use 
of that? All Toy had to do was consult the screws at Wandsworth. "No," he said.
    "Pity." Marty's belly shrank. "I'm healthy though," he said. "And strong. I can 
learn." He was aware that an unwelcome tremor had slipped into his voice from somewhere.
    "We don't want a learner, I'm afraid," Somervale pointed out, barely able to suppress 
the triumph in his tone.
    Marty leaned forward across the table, trying to blot out Somervale's leechlike 
presence.
    "I can do this job, Mr. Toy," he insisted, "I know I can do this job. Just give me a 
chance-" The tremor was growing; his belly was an acrobat. Better stop now, before he 
said or did something he regretted. But the words and the feelings just kept on coming.
    "Give me an opportunity to prove I can do it. That's not much to ask, is it? And if I 
fuck it up it's my fault, see? Just a chance, that's all I'm asking." Toy looked up at 
him with something like condolence in his face. Was it all over then? Had he made up his 
mind already-one wrong answer and the whole thing goes sour-was he already mentally 
packing up his briefcase and returning the Strauss, M. file into Somervale's clammy hands 
to be slotted back between one forgotten con and another?
    Marty bit his tongue, and sat back in the uncomfortable chair, fixing his gaze on his 
trembling hands. He couldn't bear to look at the bruised elegance of Toy's face, not now 
that he'd opened himself up so wide. Toy would see in oh yes, to all the hurt and the 
wanting, and he couldn't bear that.
    "At your trial . . ." Toy said.
    What now? Why was he prolonging the agony? All Marty wanted was to go to his cell, 
where Feaver would be sitting on the bunk and playing with his dolls, where there was a 
familiar dullness that he could take refuge "n. But Toy wasn't finished; he wanted the 
truth, the whole truth and nothing but.
    "At your trial you testified that your prime motivation for involvement in the 
robbery was to pay off substantial gambling debts. Am I correct?" Marty had moved his 
attention from his hands to his shoes. The laces were undone, and though they were long 
enough to be double-knotted he never had the patience to work at complicated knots. He 
liked a simple bow. When you needed to untie a bow you pulled and behold-like magic-it 
was gone.
    "Is that right?" Toy asked again.
    "Yes; that's right," Marty told him. He'd got so far; why not finish the story? 
"There were four of us. And two guns. We tried to take a security van. Things got out of 
hand." He glanced up from his shoes; Toy was watching intently. "The driver was shot in 
the stomach. He died later. It's all in the file, isn't it?" Toy nodded. "And about the 
van? Is that in the file too?" Toy didn't reply. "It was empty," Marty said. "We had it 
wrong from the beginning. The fucking thing was empty." "And the debts?" "Huh?" "Your 
debts to Macnamara. They're still outstanding?" The man was really beginning to get on 
Marty's nerves. What did Toy care if he owed a few grand here and there? This was just 
sympathetic camouflage, so that he could make a dignified exit.
    "Answer Mr. Toy, Strauss," Somervale said.
    "What's it to you?" "Interest," said Toy, frankly.