“Then I’ve no idea where I live,” was his helpless reply. He was so downcast that I had to battle against an impulse to invite him indoors and offer him hospitality overnight, but I quickly dismissed the idea. The flat did not belong to me and besides it is difficult to deal with people in his condition. “The name is Alan Lock,” he added quite unnecessarily. It seemed to me that considering how many people this good man had got out of their beds he could just as well be called Alarm Clock and make a ringing sound. We stood in silence for a short time while he dug an earthenware ashtray belonging to the pub out of the pocket of his winter coat. A look of surprise came over him before he sank back into deep thought. I was beginning to shiver from the cold and I was relieved when he shoved the ashtray back into his pocket and said: “If you say that your friend lives here then I must be moving on once more. Good night.” I watched him make for the door of the next house and then closed the door. Back in the room I took a wee warming dram of plum brandy and was just getting ready for bed when the ringing started all over again. Once more it was Mr. Alan Lock. My patience wearing thin, I asked him what he wanted this time, but before he could answer me there was a sound from the neighbour’s house, where Mr. Lock had apparently just rung the bell, and a hoarse male voice broke the silence of the night. “Hoi! Are you the one who’s just been ringing my bell?” he asked in a menacing tone. Mr. Lock glanced over his shoulder, gestured with his hand and with an unflappable calm said: “That’s right. Wait there, I’ll be right with you.” The neighbour slammed his door with an expletive. Mr Lock turned his attention back to me and said: “What was it I wanted? Oh yes: this friend of yours, Mr. Johnson, what does he look like?” ( 98 )
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