Lemons.

The hell with it. I’d have time to think on the Underground, and if I didn’t leave soon I’d be late meeting Tess.

Lemon thoughts came close to spoiling the whole evening. I just couldn’t get them out of my head. Tess noticed my preoccupied look after we had worked over the menu together and agreed to share a rack of lamb. Then I dithered over the wine list, not really paying attention to it, until Tess took over. She asked the wine waiter a couple of questions, and it became obvious that she knew wines better than I ever would.

“I’ve picked one that’s underpriced and underrated,” she said, as the waiter nodded respectfully and left. “I know it’ll be good. Do you think you should be drinking, though? Have you had any dizziness?”

“I’m fine.” I didn’t mention the wine and brandy I had drunk two days before.

She looked less sure. We sat there for a minute or two without attempting conversation. As I had learned during my first conscious weeks in the hospital, a lot went on behind that broad forehead. Sir Westcott wouldn’t trust his most critical cases to just anybody. Tess didn’t strike like lightning, on the first encounter; she grew on you, steadily, so that after a while you worried when she was off duty and kept wondering what she was doing.

“All right, penny for your thoughts.” She had been watching me closely, while I ate olives and paté. “Or are you going to sit there and brood all night without talking about it?”

I looked down at the table for something I could draw on. There were only the napkins and the cloth, and I didn’t think the management would like me to sketch on those. Finally Tess helped out with a paper bag that she found in her purse.

I drew as accurately as I could (which wasn’t very) and told her how they had been generated on the brain diagram.

She sat there, head to one side, studying the oval figures.

“Eggs?” she said at last, “Walnuts, lemons, balloons — they could be anything. I’d like to see the real thing. How were these placed relative to the anatomy chart?”

“I can’t describe it easily. They were down on the left, in a clear area near the front view of the brain. But you’d have to see it for yourself to know how they were positioned.”

“Well, I’m game for that. This could be important.” She tucked the bag into her purse. “Where did you leave the diagram?”

I shrugged. “Back at my flat — hanging on the bedroom wall.”

The frown lines came for a split second, then dissolved to a high-voltage smile. “That must be the worst line yet. Wouldn’t it be better to offer to show me your etchings?”

She didn’t discuss that any further, but she didn’t make an alternative suggestion. For the rest of the dinner I felt excited, happy, and more than a little bit nervous. I had noticed when we first met for dinner that she wasn’t wearing her ring, and deduced that like her boyfriend it was protection against unwanted attentions in the hospital. Tess looked at me calmly, while I drank rather more wine than I should have and made a mess of bread crumbs by working over the basket of rolls on my side of the table. For the first time since the crash (I could think of it less and less as an accident) I didn’t feel embarrassed at being seen in public. Tess certainly didn’t seem to care about my scars, and she knew I had a lot more than would show to the casual inspection.

In the taxi back to Shepherds Bush I worried all the way. First about what might happen, then about what might not. Brain injuries often cause other physical effects — I had read the literature Sir Westcott provided to me, and was all ready to fear the worst. And even assuming the best, there might still be mechanical problems. A good deal of interior rerouting had been done on me. If I did have plumbing difficulties, this would be one hell of a time to find out about them.

What with one thing and another I wasn’t at my mental peak when we got to the flat. I noticed that the door leading to the main hall of the building was unlocked, which it shouldn’t have been. And somebody or something had knocked over and rooted through the dustbins, but that hardly seemed the sort of conversational gem to impress Tess. Maybe I didn’t need to. She was much more relaxed, humming softly and taking my arm as we walked down the mews to the front door, just as though we were an old married couple.

We spent ten minutes worrying over the diagram in my bedroom, trying to puzzle some sense out of it. Tess threw out a few other possibilities for the oval shapes (eye-glasses, onions, light bulbs) but nothing useful. We sat for a few minutes looking at each other.

I was wondering what to do next when Tess went quietly out of the bedroom and back through the living room.

“Just making sure the outer door’s locked,” she said when she came back. “Somebody had to do it, and I’m not sure you’d ever get round to it.”

She came over to where I was sitting and gave me a first kiss. It was warm, soft, and quite disconcertingly pleasant. After a few minutes I pulled myself together enough to lower the lights. I had seen myself naked in a full-length mirror, and Frankenstein’s monster had less stitching.

Well, hats off to Sir Westcott. Everything seemed to be in excellent working order. I was nervous, so I didn’t exactly cover myself with glory the first time, but after that with Tess’s assistance everything turned into a roaring success.

“There,” she said afterwards. “I knew you had nothing to worry about.”

I turned my head sideways, to look down at the top of her head. “I didn’t know. And I don’t see how you could have.”

She chuckled drowsily, running her fingers gently over the operation scars on my right side and tracing the line of subcutaneous stitching on the muscle walls. “I took a look at the latest X-rays this afternoon. I couldn’t tell about the inside of your head, but all the rest of you has healed nicely. Very nicely. You’re doing fine.”

That would have been the right time to tell her about the crash, and my suspicions, and about the woman in the zoo and the men in the street in Soho . But her touch was soft and there seemed to be no rush. I could tell her in the morning, and see if she would believe me. I was sure she would have more faith than Sir Westcott.

It didn’t work out that way.

When I woke up the sun was shining, the phone was ringing, and the bed was empty. She left a note for me on the pillow, next to my head.

Duty calls. I’m on from seven to four today. Call me tonight (if you want to).

Perhaps it was just as well. I felt terrible when I sat up, physically wiped out and certainly in no condition for the hair of the dog. I staggered to the phone, and it infuriatingly stopped ringing an instant before I picked it up.

Toast and coffee improved things somewhat, and a hot shower did even more. There were no signs of fevers or seizures, and I wondered if I should report to Sir Westcott that another step had been taken on the road to recovery. But what would I do if he wanted details? I dressed slowly, then made my way downstairs to pick up the newspapers.

It was nearly ten o’clock and the sun had moved around so that it didn’t shine directly into the entrance hall. I didn’t feel like going back up to turn on the stair light, so I descended into a gloom lit only by the light from the dusty window, high up in the wall.

As soon as I reached the foot of the stairs I noticed the smell. It was strong, like acetate mixed with ripe peaches. I halted, and was still trying to identify it when the floor of the entrance hall seemed to vanish from beneath my feet. I was standing on black velvet, soft and endless. I fell backwards.

“Mind his head,” said a voice from behind me. Arms came from nowhere to cushion my fall. Then I was gone, down deep below the velvet surface to a place where the sun never shone.