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comradeship and adventure. He himself had never done National Service because he had been continually deferred and later they had found that his eyes were weak. It had never occurred to him to ask Norman much about that period in his life. In fact when he came to think about it he didn’t know much about Norman from the time that he had left home to join the Army or what events there had made him so restless later. How could this have happened? And yet when he had heard of his death, or presumed death, the tears had sprung to his eyes. It was lucky that their mother was no longer alive or the revelations, if true, would have shamed her. And yet he couldn’t imagine that his brother would have been in trouble with the police, and least of all could he imagine that he would ever have stolen anything. Sheila, of course, hadn’t wanted to get in touch with him. He should have been more insistent than he had been.
    Sheila. … He blinked and turned his eyes again on the dim landscape through which the bus was travelling. The last light had drained out of it. Now and again a truck lit up like a Christmas tree with red lights loomed in front of the bus and then disappeared. They passed through the empty streets of small towns whose shops were illuminated and shut: launderamas, jewellers, petrol stations with their flags. And then they were out of the towns and on to the open road with the flicker of farm lights well away from the road.
    He glanced to his right and saw that the old woman with the short skirt was asleep, her mouth open and slack. For some reason she reminded him of his mother and he imagined her trailing his brother through Australia with a Bible in her hand. Her voice came back to him across the years, “Make sure that you put on your tie, and comb your hair.” He and his brother were setting off to school in the early morning, the berries shining redly on the trees among the heat haze, while they swung their schoolbags carelessly. The other boys were shouting “Sissy” and “Swot” after him and Norman was grim-faced and angry, as if ashamed of him.
    He calculated, glancing at his watch, that they would reach Sydney at about ten o’clock. The driver had taken to using his microphone and was telling them a little of the dark country through which they were passing, and about the small town where they were to stop for refreshments. Trevor heard a woman with an Irish accent saying, “I prefer Melbourne. My daughter lives there. Do you know Melbourne?” Another bus passed them going in the same direction and the driver said,
    â€œI beat him last week so this week he’s trying to beat me.” Another huge truck loomed out of the darkness, and then was gone. What was he doing on this road so far from home? He felt himself engaged on a rescue operation which at the same time appeared absurd. He thought of himself rushing into a room and saying to his wounded brother, “I have come to fetch you home. I have come to save you.” But what would Sheila have to say about that? And would his brother be able to get a job when he came home? No, that wasn’t the important thing. The important thing was to find him.
    All the time that he had been lecturing on Robert Louis Stevenson that other world, of deprivation and despair, had been in existence, dark and enigmatic. How had he managed to evade it? Simply by winning the rewards that he had won. In the gathering darkness he saw the bare-footed guitarist playing for money while no one listened to him. Men were beaten up in parks, in police stations, beggars walked the streets.
    Your brother has changed, Douglas had said. He had even taken to reading books. What if he passed him and didn’t even recognize him? What if the man Douglas was talking about wasn’t his brother at all? He felt badly in need of advice, of the opinion of an outsider. This burden which had been placed on his shoulders seemed too heavy