I stand and watch. He cleans up his cradle, checks his supporting cables, then bandages his still-bleeding hands, finally he takes a good look at the wrecked window and finds some bits which are both unbroken and not yet washed; he starts cleaning these.

Ten minutes have passed since the trawler impacted; I am still alone here. Noboby has come to investigate, no alarms or warning signals have sounded. Mr Johnson carries on washing and polishing. A warm breeze blows through the smashed window, ruffling the torn leaves of the pot-plants. Where the doors to the L-shaped elevator were, there is now a blank wall, with niches for statues.

I leave, my quest for the Third City Library again abandoned.

I return to my apartment, and an even greater disaster.

Men in grey overalls are moving in and out of the doorway, loading all my clothes onto a trolley. As I watch, another man appears, straining under a load of paintings and drawings; he piles them onto another trolley and returns inside.

'Hoy! You! You there! What do you think you're doing?' The men stop and look at me, perplexed. I try to tear some of my shirts from one tall fellow's arms, but he is too strong, and simply stands, blinking with surprise and holding stiffly onto the clothes he has taken from my room. His mate shrugs and walks back inside my apartment. 'You there; stop! Come out of there!'

I leave the oaf with my shirts and dash into my rooms; they are in turmoil; grey-overalled men moving everywhere, putting white cloths over furniture, carrying other pieces outside, taking books from my bookcases and putting them in boxes, removing pictures from walls and ornaments from tables. I gaze round; stunned, aghast.

'Stop this! What the hell do you think you're doing? Stop it!'

A few turn and look, but they don't stop what they're doing.

One man is making for the door with all three of my umbrellas; 'Put those back!' I shout, blocking his way. I threaten him with my stick. He takes it from me, adds it to the collection of umbrellas and disappears outside.

'Ah, you must be Mr Orr.' A large, bald man wearing a black jacket on top of his overalls, holding a black hat in one hand and a clipboard in the other, appears from my bedroom.

'I certainly am; what the hell's going on here?'

'You're being moved, Mr Orr,' the fellow says, smiling.

'What? Why? To where?' I shout. My legs are shaking; there is a sick, heavy feeling in my stomach.

'Umm ...' The bald man looks through the papers on his clipboard. 'Ah, here we are: level U7, room 306.'

'What? Where's that?' I cannot believe this. U7? That surely means under the rail deck! But that's where workers, ordinary people live. What's happening? Why are they doing this to me? It must be a mistake.

'Don't rightly know, sir,' the man says cheerfully, 'but I'm sure you can find it if you look.'

'But why am I being moved?'

'Absolutely no idea, sir,' he chimes happily. 'You been here long?'

'Six months.'

More of my clothes are taken out of my dressing room. I turn to the bald fellow again. 'Look, those are my clothes. What are you doing with them?'

'Oh, returning them, sir,' he assures me, nodding, smiling.

'Returning them? To where?' I shout. This is all very undignified, but what else can I do?

'I don't know, sir. Wherever you got them from, I suppose. Not my department exactly where they go back to, sir.'

'But they're mine!'

He frowns, looks at his clipboard, ruffling paper. He shakes his head, smiling confidently. 'No, sir.'

'But they are, dammit!'

'Sorry, sir, they're not; they belong to the hospital authorities; says so here - look.' He shows me the clipboard; a sheet of paper details my purchases of clothes from shops on the hospital's credit lines. 'See?' He chortles. 'Had me worried for a second there, sir; that would've been illegal, that would, removing any of your stuff. You could have called the police, you could have, and quite right too, if we'd touched any of your own stuff. You shouldn't go -'

'But I was told I could buy what I liked! I have an allowance! I -'

'Now, sir,' the man says, watching another load of coats and hats go past, and ticking something off on his clipboard, 'I'm not a lawyer or anything like one, sir, but I've been doing this sort of thing for longer than I care to think about, and I think you'll find, sir, if you don't mind me saying, that all this stuff actually belongs to the hospital, and you only had the use of it. I think that's what you'll find.'

'But -'

'I don't know if that was explained to you sir, but I'm sure that's what you would find if you were to investigate the matter, sir.'

'I...' I feel dizzy. 'Look, can't you stop, just for a moment?' I ask. 'Let me phone my doctor. Dr Joyce - you've probably heard of him; he'll sort this out. There must have -'

'Been a mistake, sir?' The bald man laughs wheezily for a moment. 'Bless me, sir. Sorry to interrupt you like that, but I couldn't help it; that's what everybody says. Wish I had a shilling for every time I've heard that!' He shakes his head, wipes one cheek. 'Well, if you really think so, sir, you'd better get in touch with the relevant authorities.' He looks around, 'The phone's around here ... somewhere ...'

'It doesn't work.'

'Oh it does, sir; I used it not half an hour ago, to let the department know we're here.'

I find the telephone on the floor. It's dead; it clicks once when I try to dial. The bald man comes over.

'Cut off, sir?' He looks at his watch. 'Bit early, sir.' He makes another note on his board. 'Very keen those boys at the exchange, sir. Very, very keen.' He makes a little papping noise which his mouth and snakes his head again, obviously impressed.

'Will you please, please just wait a moment; let me get in touch with my doctor; he'll sort this out. His names is Dr Joyce.'

'No need, sir,' the man says happily. An ugly, sickening thought occurs to me. The bald man looks through the sheets of paper on his clipboard. He runs a finger down one of the papers near the back of the bundle, then stops. 'Here we are, sir. Look, here.'

It is the good doctor's signature. The bald man says, 'See, he already knows sir; it was him authorised it.'

'Yes.' I sir down and stare at the blank wall opposite.

'Happynow, sir?' The bald man does not seem to be attempting either levity or irony.

'Yes,' I hear myself say. I feel numb, dead, wrapped in cotton wool, all senses reduced, ground down, fuses blown.

''Fraid we're going to need those things you've got on, sir.' He is looking at my clothes.

'You cannot,' I say wearily, 'be serious.'

'Sorry, sir. We've got a nice and - I might add, sir - new set of overalls for you. You want to change now?'

'This is ridiculous.'

'I know, sir. Still, rules are rules, aren't they? I'm sure you'll like these overalls; they're brand new.'

'Overalls?'

They are bright green. They come complete with shoes, shorts, shirt and rather rough underwear.

I change in my dressing room, my mind as blank as the walls.

My body seems to move of its own accord, performing the motions it is expected to; automatically, mechanically, and then stopping, waiting for a fresh order. I fold my clothes neatly, and as I fold my jacket, see the handkerchief Abberlaine Arrol gave me. I take it from the breast pocket.

When I go back into the sitting room, the bald man is watching the television. It is showing a quiz programme. He turns it off when I enter, bearing my bundle of clothes. He puts his black hat on.

'This handkerchief,' I say, nodding at the handkerchief on top of the bundle. 'It has been monogrammed. May I keep it?'