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for him. On the other hand he had been used to burdens, he had looked after his parents in their old age. And there was many a time when he had cursed his brother who had vanished so conveniently into the blue when he had needed him, not even sending a Christmas card home. Not even a present to his mother. He had eeled so easily out of his responsibilities as if sliding out of his overalls when coming home from work.
    And to tell the truth he felt frightened. What was this huge city Sydney like? What would he find in the office to which he was heading like a missile through the night among all these sleeping people, with their heads lolling back on seats? Even if he found that Norman was dead he would have to discover whether he had been given a proper burial. He might even have had a pauper’s funeral, interred hugger mugger somewhere. But the worst thought was that he might not be able to find him at all and he would forever after wonder what had happened to him.
    The old woman sat up with a jolt and smiled at him. The girl sitting in front of him went on remorselessly reading her book. The Malaysian girls were giggling secretly together in the hooded light.
    Why hadn’t Douglas kept in touch with his brother all those years if he had been so interested in him? Why had he so suddenly and brutally told him of a death which wasn’t even definite but had been accepted on hearsay? Was he like the Pole of whom he had spoken, an unmitigated liar?
    The bus drew up in front of a restaurant and the driver said, “Well, folks, this is where you get your refreshments.” Trevor stayed where he was, not feeling like eating, while the others woke as from the dead, rubbing their eyes, stretching.
    â€œYou wouldn’t recognize your brother now,” he heard Douglas saying. And then he heard his brother’s voice, “You didn’t even do your National Service.”

Three
    H E ARRIVED IN Sydney at ten o’clock at night and wasn’t prepared for the size of the city. Why, it was at least as big as London and probably bigger, with tall buildings thrusting aggressively into the sky, a jungle of lights. In relation to Canberra it had a powerful, pushy air. From the bus station he took a taxi, giving the name of the hotel, which at first the driver couldn’t find. They drove around a park while the driver kept saying,
    â€œI can’t see it, mate. Are you sure it’s on Elizabeth Street.” For a moment Trevor was terrified he had made a mistake till he checked the address in his book.
    â€œI was definitely told Elizabeth Street,” he said, and eventually after they had driven two or three times round the park he was the first to see the name, the Australia Hotel, among the other competing signs on the street. It surprised him that the entrance was so small and insignificant, since the name itself sounded so grand.
    When he eventually pressed the bell he heard a disembodied voice speaking to him, asking him to identify himself, for the door was locked. After he had said who he was the door opened slowly, creaking gently as it did so, and, as he entered, it shut behind him. What on earth was this? He felt as if he was entering a dilapidated prison. The building was like a slum in Glasgow.
    â€œSixth floor,” the voice had said.
    By main force he pushed open the door of an ancient lift and pressed the button for the sixth floor, rising as if he were inside an old metallic coffin. How did this place have the nerve to call itself the Australian Hotel: why, it was like a grimy midnight tomb. The lift door opened and he found himself at what appeared to be a reception desk behind which sat a young, dark-skinned man with a moustache.
    â€œThe tab from the Tourist Bureau?” the man said, and Trevor handed the tab over, all the time looking uneasily about him. Planks of wood were leaning against the ancient wall: it was as though he had interrupted workmen in shoring up the