The baby crawled towards them, seeking their blood. But we’ve got the brains to get over that, and tongues in our heads to talk to each other. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. Let me bind you up, and then you can attend to her. God, how old are they now? They must be teenagers. She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. It was you, of course, whom he wanted. They knew they were all Bogey in disguise. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already.
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