'But I'm not fucked up.'

'Ha!  That's what you think.'

'…You know, in principle this idiocy could go on for ever.'

'Exactly!  Unless you take some action to discover the truth.'

'Let me guess.  And the only way to find out is to go to a shrink, right?'

'Well, of course!'

'Look, are you on commission or something?'

'I'm on Prozac, so what?'

'I prefer prosaic.  What I remember is what happened.  Look, I'm sorry I bothered you, Luce.  I'll —'

'Don't hang up!  Don't hang up!  Listen, this must have been meant to happen because I was just on my way…In fact I'm here, I'm at the place.  Now look, Kate, I just think there's somebody here that you need to talk to, okay?  Now, just a second.  Just a second.  Hi.  Yeah, hi.  Yeah.  Yeah.  That's right.  L. T. Shrowe.  Listen, I got somebody here on the phone I think really needs to talk to Dr Pegging, you know?'

'Luce?  Luce!  Don't you dare!'

'May I?  He is?  Oh, great.'

'Luce?  Don't you fucking dare!  I'm not — I won't — I'm putting the phone down!'

'Hi, Doctor.  Yeah, it's good to see you, it really is.  Look, I realise this is kinda weird, but I have this friend, right?'

'Luce!  Luce!  Listen to me, goddammit!  This had better be a joke.  You better be in the fucking supermarket or your manicurist's or something because I'm not going to —'

'Hello?'

'…ah.'

'Who am I speaking to?'

I looked through narrowed eyes at the far side of my room. Okay, I thought.  I said, 'Oh, like, gee, are you another, like, weirdo?'

'I beg your pardon?  My name is Dr Richard Pegging.  I'm a psychoanalyst here in San José.  And who might you be?'

'San José?  Jeez, isn't that in, like, California or someplace?'

'Well, yes.'

'Okay, listen, Doc, like, if you really are, like, a doc, sorta like you said, then, like, I'm really sorry, okay? But, I mean, this woman, that woman who just, like, handed you the phone?'

'Yes?'

'Well, she's been calling me now for a coupla months.  I mean, the first time she must justa dialled at random or something or got me out of the book, I dunno.  Oh, sorry.  My name's Linda?  Linda Sinkowitz?  I live here in Tuna County, Florida?  And I'm just, like, here, you know?  And then one day I get this phone call and it's this woman Lucy something and she thinks I'm her best fucking friend or something, excuse my language, and I tell her she must have, like, made a mistake only it goes on way too long for it really to be a mistake but so okay she calls off and that's fine but then a few weeks later it all happens again and this is, like, the — Jeez, I dunno — the ninth or tenth time or something, you know?  I mean, I guess she needs help or something, right, but if this happens again I'm gonna have to tell the phone company.  I mean, you —'

'That's quite all right.  That's fine, that's fine.  I think I get the picture, Ms Sinkowitz.  Well, it's been nice talking to you.  Hopefully you won't be —'

'Kate!'

'Ms Shrowe, if you don't mind —'

'Doc, do you mind?  It's my fucking phone!  Thank you!  Kate?  Kate?  What the fuck's this about Ms Sinkowitz?'

'Have a nice session, Luce.'

For the evening, we had a circus to entertain us.

The word was that during the afternoon — once Suvinder Dzung had been prised out of his bed and sobered up by his servants — Hazleton, Madame Tchassot and Poudenhaut had resumed negotiations with the Prince, his private secretary B. K. Bousande and Hisa Gidhaur, his Exchequer and Foreign Secretary who had arrived that morning.  This negotiating party was late for dinner, which was accordingly delayed for half an hour, and then went on without them.  This was a little embarrassing as we had to entertain even more rich, famous and titled people that evening compared to the Friday; however, Uncle Freddy made some ridiculous excuse for our absentees, guffawed a lot and told a series of long-winded jokes, which kept everybody entertained in the drawing room until it was decided to go ahead with dinner anyway.

My beloved was gone:  Stephen Buzetski had disappeared after breakfast that morning, called away to Washington DC.

The circus, in a tent on the lawn, was one of these extreme affairs where people dress as though auditioning for Mad Max IV; they juggled chainsaws, attached heavy industrial machinery to their sexual organs and rode very noisy motorbikes while doing unlikely things with knives and flaming torches.  It was all terribly macho and camp at the same time and quite entertaining; however, I'd seen it all before several Edinburgh Festivals ago, so didn't stay long.  I wandered back into the main house and took myself off to the snooker room.

I tend to play quite a lot of pool while trawling the in-play hang-outs in Silicon Valley.  Most of the cutting-edge dudes are young and male, and find the idea of playing pool with a mature but well-preserved lady pretty cool.  Often they'll drop their guard when they realise they're going to get beaten, or become a little too relaxed and open if I let them win against the odds.  Honing potting skills on a snooker or a billiard table is good practice for this sort of thing: if you can regularly make pots from across eleven and a half feet of green baize, switching to a pool table gives you the impression that the pockets have suddenly swollen to the diameter of basketball hoops.

Adrian Poudenhaut was there before me, also indulging in some solitary play.  He looked tired.  He was polite, almost deferential, and gave up the table for me, refusing the offer of a game.  He exited the room with a wary but knowing smile.

I looked at my reflection in the room's tall windows.  I was frowning.  A tiny sparkle of light way in the distance caught my eye and I moved closer to the window.  The snooker room was on the second floor of Blysecrag (third if you counted the American way), the last main floor before the servants' quarters in the attics.  I remembered that from here, on a clear night, you could see the lights of Harrogate.  Another distant blossom of light rose above the town.  Somebody was letting off fireworks; it was two days after Guy Fawkes' Night, but a lot of people held their displays over to the Friday or Saturday after the more traditional fifth of November.  I leant against the window-frame, arms crossed, watching.

'You look sad, Kate.'

I jumped, which is not like me at all, and turned round.  The voice had been male, though I half expected to see Miss Heggies standing there, just re-materialised.

Suvinder Dzung, looking tired and a little sad himself, was standing by the snooker table, dressed in one of his Savile Row suits, tie undone, waistcoat unbuttoned, hair less than perfect.

I was annoyed at myself for not having heard him or spotted his reflection. 'Did I look sad?' I asked, giving myself time to gather my wits.

'I thought so.  What are you watching?' He came closer and stood beside me.  I remembered watching our own fireworks the night before, on the terrace, and him putting his arm round my waist.  I edged away from him a little, trying to make it look as though I was just making room for him, but getting the distinct impression that he was perfectly well aware of what I was really doing.  He gave me a small, maybe apologetic smile, and did not try to touch me.  I wondered if he even remembered our early morning telephone conversation.

'Fireworks,' I said. 'Look.'

'Ah.  Yes, of course.  Gunpowder, treason and plot, and all that sort of thing.'

'That sort of thing,' I agreed.  There was an awkward silence. 'Pretty good view, for a billiards room,' I said.  He looked at me. 'They're usually on the ground floor because of the weight,' I explained.

He nodded and looked thoughtful. 'Are you perhaps a Catholic, Kate?'

'What?'