“Set in Berlin,” I said.

“East or West?”

“Both,” I said. “And also Antwerp, where Laz identifies Molly Behemoth by her ‘distinctive birthmark and Egyptian walk’ …”

“Yes, OK. But who ‘ate his way to freedom’ and never used the word ‘nigger’ when ‘Frenchman’ would do?”

“Callbeck the miner’s son, who sold his soul to Harrods in a bet with a Rasputin Impersonator who turned out to be one of the Beverley Sisters.”

“Burger me backwards over my aunty’s handbag,” said Barry. “You sure know your Lazlo Woodbine thrillers.”

“Buddy,” I said, “in my business, knowing your Lazlo Woodbine thrillers can mean the difference between painting the town red and wearing a pair of red pants, if you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.”[17]

“I know where you’re coming from,” said Barry. “Although that was a pretty poor imitation.”

“No one can do it like Penrose could,” I said.

“Too true, brother,” said Barry. “Although I never had time for his Adam Earth science-fiction books. They were rubbish, in my opinion.”

“True,” I said. And I sighed. “Listen,” I said, continuing. “It’s really wonderful to meet another fan of the great man, but you really are useless at this job. Perhaps you should just quit and let a more committed individual take over.”

“There’s no quitting, is there?” said Barry. “It’s off to prison for the quitter. I foolishly signed the Official Secrets Act.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “I signed that too.”

“Which is why you’re such a twonk, I suppose. You gave up, sold out and gave in.”

I didn’t like to talk about this stuff. It was personal. “All right,” I said. “I thought about rebelling. I really did. I came here on my second day with every intention of smashing the bulb or pulling it out and sitting here with my arms folded to see what would happen.”

“And so why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I was going to do it. I got drunk the night before and determined utterly that I’d do it. Then I got up all hungovered and came in here and sat down in that chair. Which now has my special sprung cushion on it, you’ll notice, and I was going to rebel. But I had such a hangover and I thought I’d rebel later and the light flashed and I switched it off. And I thought, ‘Stuff it. I’ll just not switch it off next time.’ But then it flashed on again and I was all on my own and I thought, ‘OK, I’ll just switch it off the one time more. But this will be the last time.’

“And then I thought about my wife Sandra and how she was really ticked off about how I was always out of work. And Harry, her brother, who said about saving up for a motorbike so you could be first at interviews for really good jobs, and I thought, ‘OK, I’ll just stick it out for a week. Or maybe two. Then find some way of getting out.’ But then it sort of grew on me and I started taking pride in my job. Because I was in it and Mr Holland kept impressing upon me how important it was. Although I’ve never been able to find out why. But he said it was. And, OK, there was the threat – that was always there in the back of my mind – foul up and you’re off to prison.

“But somehow it was more than that, so I kept doing it and now, OK, it’s me. It’s what I am; it’s all I’ve got. There’s some bloke sexing my wife. This is all I’ve got.”

Barry looked up at me. “I’m sorry, man,” he said. “You’re OK. You know that. You’re OK.”

“I’m not OK,” I said. “I’m all messed up. Once upon a time I was OK. I knew who I was. But I don’t know any more. I’m an adult. Adults don’t know who they really are. Only children know who they really are. And nobody listens to children.”

“You’re so right,” said Barry, “you’re so right.”

Then the bulb flashed on and, without even thinking, I switched it off again.

“I hate this,” said Barry. “I want to be a musician, like Jeff Beck. But I’m stuck here and I’m really screwed up by it.”

“I’d be prepared to put in a couple of extra hours if it would help you out,” I said. “I could work up to eight or eight-thirty.”

“Thanks, man,” said Barry. “But it really isn’t the point, is it? This isn’t right, is it? We’re stuck in something we don’t understand. I mean, why does the fugging bulb flash on in the first place?”

I laughed.

“You’re laughing,” said Barry. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because it’s a joke. You’re asking me why the bulb flashes on. Do I look like a technical engineer?”

“And that’s funny, is it?”

“No,” I said. “I suppose it isn’t.”

“So why does the bulb flash on?”

I shrugged. “Because it can, I suppose.”

“And why must we switch it off when it does?”

“Because it’s what we do, I suppose.”

“It’s a sad indictment on society, man.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “A bloke from Transylvania is sexing my wife.”

“Count Otto Black,” said Barry.

“You know him?”

“Well, he’s the only bloke from Transylvania who lives around here.”

“I’m going to kill him,” I said. “That’s off the record, by the way. Just between the two of us.”

“Big kudos to you, then.”

“Thanks. I also have to find out about FLATLINE. Ever heard of that?”

“Bits and pieces,” said Barry. “Blokes from Developmental Services come off shift at eleven. They often hang about outside the booth, having a fag. I hear them talking.”

“And what do you hear them talking about?”

“Usual stuff: football, women, cars.”

“FLATLINE?” I said.

“Yeah, they talk about it, but it all sounds like a load of old bollards to me.”

“Go on,” I said. “Tell me what they say.”

Barry eyed me queerly. But as I was mostly straight nowadays and didn’t fancy him anyway, I said, “I think they’re up to something dodgy up there on the seventeenth floor.”

“Something stone bonkers,” said Barry. “I mean, communicating with beings from outer space. What’s that all about, eh?”

“Eh?” I said in an “eh” that was louder than his.

“Something to do with us not doing the thinking with our brains, but our brains being receivers and transmitters. Or some such rubbish. They’ve supposedly got some kind of direct communications computer, or something, up there that lets them talk to aliens.”

“That’s incredible,” I said, and a distant bell began to ring in my head. Something from long, long ago. And then I remembered: that afternoon in the restricted section of the Memorial Library, the conversation between the two men from the Ministry that had no name, or, rather, did have but it was a secret.

“Are you OK?” asked Barry. “You look as if a distant bell is ringing in your head.”

“I’m OK,” I said. “But you are sure about this?”

“My ear goes right against the door when they’re out there,” said Barry. “It passes a bit of time and I’m nothing if not nosy. But none of them seem to agree about what’s really going on up there and why it is.”

“I wonder,” I said and I glanced towards the ceiling.

“What do you wonder?” Barry asked. “Do you wonder whether the ceiling could do with a lick of paint? Well, it could, and I might even do it myself.”

“Don’t you even think about it. What if the bulb was to flash?”

“It wouldn’t,” said Barry.

“It might. You don’t know.”

“I do know. It wouldn’t.”

“And how could you know?”

“Because I’d take it out,” said Barry. “Like I do when I slip off to the toilet.”

I clutched at my heart. Well, you would! I would. And I did.

“You take the bulb out?” My voice was a choking whisper.

“Sometimes,” said Barry. “I leave it out if I’m having a bit of a kip, or something.”

“You … you …” My voice kind of trailed off.

“Nothing ever happens,” said Barry. “No alarms ever go off. There aren’t any explosions. No men in riot gear rush in. Here, I’ll show you, I’ll take it out now. I was going to take it out anyway, so I could pop upstairs to the refectory and phone my girlfriend.”