The torch zig-zagged erratically among the scrub, like a firefly. Sometimes it would stop for a moment, and then wander away in some totally new direction. It was very bright.
'What is it?' said Victor.
Gaspode sniffed. 'Human,' he said. 'Female. Wearin' cheap scent.' His nose twitched again. 'It's called Passion's Plaything.' He sniffed again. 'Fresh laundry, no starch. Old shoes. Lot of studio make-up. She's been in Borgle's and had-' his nose twitched '-stoo. Not a big plate.'
'I suppose you can tell how tall she is, can you?' said Victor.
'She smells about five foot two, two and a half,' hazarded Gaspode.
'Oh, come on!'
'Walk a mile on these paws and call me a liar.'
Victor kicked sand over his little fire and strolled down the slope.
The light stopped moving as he approached it. For a moment he got a glimpse of a female figure clasping a shawl around her with one hand holding the torch high above her head. Then the light vanished so quickly it left blue and purple after-images dancing across his vision. Behind them, a small figure made a blacker shadow against the dusk.
It said, 'What are you doing in my . . . what am I . . . why are you in . . . where . . . ,' and then, as if it had finally got to grips with the situation, changed gear and in a much more familiar voice demanded, 'What are you doing here?'
'Ginger?' said Victor.
'Yes?'
Victor paused. What were you supposed to say in circumstances like this?
'Er . . . ' he said. 'It's nice up here in the evenings, don't you think?'
She glared at Gaspode.
'That's that horrible dog who's been hanging round the studio, isn't it?' she said. 'I can't stand small dogs.'
'Bark, bark,' said Gaspode. Ginger stared at him. Victor could almost read her thoughts: he said Bark, bark. And he's a dog, and that's the kind of noise dogs make, isn't it?
'I'm a cat person, myself,' she said, vaguely.
A low-level voice said: 'Yeah? Yeah? Wash in your own spit, do you?'
'What was that?'
Victor backed away, waving his hands frantically. 'Don't look at me!' he said. 'I didn't say it!'
'Oh? I suppose it was the dog, was it?' she demanded.
'Who, me?' said Gaspode.
Ginger froze. Her eyes swivelled around and down, to where Gaspode was icily scratching an ear.
'Woof?' he said.
'That dog spoke-' Ginger began, pointing a shaking finger at him.
'I know,' said Victor. 'That means he likes you.' He looked past her. Another light was coming up the hill.
'Did you bring someone with you?' he said.
'Me?' Ginger turned round.
Now the light was accompanied by the cracking of dry twigs, and Dibbler stepped out of the dusk with Detritus trailing behind like a particularly scary shadow.