The sun dropped behind the bruised horizon and the sky became plateaued in fading orange and blue. A car, bearing the legend Weston Taxis, appeared on the quiet street, stopping opposite The Playhouse. The sky was held in the theatre’s windows; a ghost crowd, too; foyered. A man and a woman climbed from the taxi onto the pavement beneath the window where Knott was sat.
The man’s head was bare and brown: a white short-sleeve wore him; a gold-coloured kipper tie hung from him; dark Sta-Press drainpipes; tan slip-ons. The kipper tie waved the taxi off into the night. The woman was pearl-coloured and wore a thin and near-transparent slip that clung to her like liquid, rendering her as a fluted mimosa. She clutched a silver bag between one bare arm and her silken ribs. A pair of dainty shoes dangled from her fingers and her hair snatched at the evening all around her.
He was a squat, pint-sized, pumpkin faced man; but, still he leapt onto the cobbles like some Pan, making the other side of the street with three oafish strides and sinking into a crowd of brightly dressed people gathered at the curb. Knott counted ten and then the man appeared again from the crowd. He stood at the cobbled edge, hands on hips, looked left, looked right, looked left again, and seemed about to launch himself back out onto the cobbles with the intention, Knott reckoned, of some gallantry, but the fluted mimosa was already across the cobbles, too, and was sitting down on the curb some yards from him. She began to strap her feet, laughing, back into the handy shoes. Pan’s tie upended and rose, though only momentarily, like a noose. The man snatched the kipper tie from the sky, which had become now a painful and purpled colour, and tucked its head into his shirt.