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It was pitch black in that alleyway. What moon there was blinked between the clouds of that summer, leaving its ghost behind with a slight stain of silver on the sky. And all cats were equally grey.

He checked the street one last time. He heard their feet clattering on the cobbles of Bene’t Street behind him; one set of footsteps slithering and sliding, the hobnails on the soles scoring the stones, the other set firm, even and determined, eating up the yards until they reached the wall. He heard the stifled laughter of old, that stupid bray that Henry had when he was in his cups. He didn’t have to see them to know what was going on. Henry would have to be quiet and that was Tom’s job; dear old, dependable Tom. Matt? Well, Matt would probably be balancing on the college wall by now, tiptoeing through the daisies. And why not? It isn’t everyday a man becomes a Bachelor of Arts in the greatest university in the world.

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