The radio from the newsagent blasted out an old Elvis hit about a woman, impolitely called a hound dog, who cried incessantly Anselm set off for Manor House tube station, the singer’s name having reminded him of a confession he’d once heard. The unseen face behind the grille had leaned forward, saying darkly fearfully ‘Do you realise, Father… Elvis is an anagram for “Lives”… but also Evils”… the fiend is everywhere.’ Anselm had said ‘God is “dog” spelt backwards… the hound of heaven will protect you.’ And the man had gone away healed.
Upon an impulse, Anselm patted his right-hand pocket, perhaps because it was lighter than it had been. The iron keys to St Catherine’s. He’d left them on the armrest. Irritated, he began to retrace his steps. But there was no rush: Victor was going nowhere.