John Hackworth withdrew some tickets from his breast pocket and asked them 
to illuminate themselves; but they were printed on old-fashioned paper that did 
not contain its own energy source, and so he finally had to use the microtorch 
dangling from his watch chain. Apparently satisfied that they had arrived at 
the right place, he offered Fiona his arm and escorted her down the gangway to 
the pier. A tiny flickering light bobbed toward them and resolved into an 
Afro-Caribbean man, wearing rimless glasses and carrying an antique hurricane 
lamp. Fiona watched his face as his enormous eyes,
yellowed like antique ivory billiard balls, scanned their tickets. His skin was 
rich and warm and glowing in the light of the candle, and he smelled faintly of 
citrus combined with something darker and less ingratiating. When he was 
finished, he looked up, not at the Hackworths but off into the distance, turned 
his back, and ambled away. John Hackworth stood there for a few moments, 
awaiting instructions, then straightened, squared his shoulders, and led Fiona 
across the pier to the boat.