man s bent knuckle tapping on the car window some<br > ore my right ear.<br >knuckle， white at the joint， was a beefy hand covered<br >rs， and beyond that the blue serge sleeve of a Scots<br >J not belie the hand. It， too， was beefy， red， a little<br >ae cheekbones.<br >ng face， until you came to the eyes. They were blue，<br >Jgh the car window， as cold as Loch Leven in winter.<br >still sluggish from sleep， I saw the police car. It had<br >ttly， unostentatiously at an angle across nay bows，<br >in tightly. I would be allowed to drive the Ford<br >the lay-by when it pleased them and not before.<br >~r patrol stood another policeman， all bone and sharp<br >，~ well over six feet， with shoulders to fit.<br >t waited patiently， slightly bent towards me， while I<br >tae window.<br > car， sir? <br >ill not in possession of my senses， I answered without<br >>rd flow past him and become a long drawn out pause.<br >ay I see your driving licence? <br >Lt hand. Everything I need always is. I am meticulous<br >believe there is a right place for every scrap of paper.<br >you burn it.<br >ny driving licence from nay wallet.<br >: hands took the flimsy pasteboard as if it were some<br >
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