Billy Weaver had travelled down from
London on the slow afternoon train, with a
change at Swindon on the way, and by the
time he got to Bath it was about nine
o’clock in the evening and the moon was
coming up out of a clear starry sky over
the houses opposite the station entrance.
But the air was deadly cold and the wind
was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but is there a
fairly cheap hotel not too far away from
here?