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He followed me at a trot down the grand staircase of that dreadful, ruined hotel, with the silent, suffering boy whose legs were broken clinging to his back—me with an electric torch in one hand and Paul’s Colt .32 in the other, navigating by a memorized map as usual.

“Have you got an electric torch?”

He stuffed his waymarked map back through the opening in the bulkhead, followed by a pocket-size electric torch.

Got one of them to hold an electric torch for me while the other made a tent with his jacket to hide the light.

Instead, he took the electric torch from the rucksack and switched it on.