The next day, Michael telephoned Margaret.

'Hello Margaret,' he began. 'This is Michael. I just wanted to say thanks for last night. Are you OK?'

'I'm sorry?' Margaret laughed indulgently, as if she were still Bottles. 'I'm a bit slow this morning. Michael who?'

'Michael Blasco, from school, I came round to the clinic'

'Michael? Michael, hello!' Margaret was surprised and delighted. 'It's funny, I was thinking about you just the other day. How are you, long time no see!'

The backs of Michael's arms pricked up as if there were a cold wind. 'I'm fine. I, uh, I came round to the clinic Wednesday night.'

'Oh, dear.' Margaret laughed at herself. 'Did you? I've got a head like a sieve. I'm so sorry, I guess I just didn't recognize you. I mean, did you say "Hi, I'm Michael from school?"'

Michael considered. 'No. Not really. I popped in to get some information for a friend.'

Her voice modulated carefully downwards. 'Was it all right?'

'Yeah, yeah, he came in to the clinic and had the test. And it was negative. He's OK. I just wanted to say thank you for the work you do. It's good work.'

Michael ended the conversation quickly. He had learned one last thing.

If you were part of their story, you could be forgotten too. Oh, people could meet you both, shake your hands, they could tell you your friend was handsome and that they wanted to meet up again. And then they would forget. Not right away, but gently so everything healed shut. They'd forget everything, and if you were part of everything, then they'd forget you too.

Angels came, Angels were here, they could talk, and when they went, they were forgotten as quickly as dreams. And the stories they made were forgotten too.

Michael would be forever alone with his memories. Maybe we're surrounded by miracles, he thought. Maybe there're miracles every day, only we're programmed not to remember them. He opened up his notebook and read.

A physical copy

someone I know (later: also someone I don't know!)

in train, tube and 2 x in my flat, 1 x in office (location has no effect)

Can call up at will and banish (I may not know I've done it!)

other people appear to interact

His behaviour, my behaviour both sexual

the real person is straight (can be!)

copy says real person dreams what happens

Can't call up people without sexual element (sexual element can be love)

Can call up dead

Can control behaviour

They have free will until I override it

they can be male or female

they think they go somewhere (fiction continues elsewhere?)

they are a kind of fiction in flesh

they can change nothing

they are never really here

Then Michael wrote in the notebook, Knowing does no good. And then he closed it.

Henry came to stay with them. He had nowhere else to go, unless it was a burrow under the route of a planned bypass. He slept in the sitting room, on the sofa bed, and kept all his clothes rolled up in a backpack in the corner. The clothes were always neat and uncreased; Henry had a knack of packing clothes so tightly that they stayed pressed. The whole room smelled of him, a pleasant slightly earthy odour, like field mushrooms.

Michael assumed that Philip and Henry had sex by day on that sofa bed while he was at the lab. Throughout the night, Philip still cradled Michael in their big double bed, out of affection and habit. Michael was grateful to be held. He found he was scared.

So he made both of them breakfast and brought it out on a tray, and laid it out on the table in the bay window of the sitting room. Henry's arms were lean and pale and smooth as he pulled on his socks. His skin had a kind of silver sheen in the morning sun. He gave Michael a dozy morning grin under the thicket of his hair.

It was summer now, and dust danced in warm sunlight. Mild air drifted in through the open window; blackbirds made surprisingly beautiful sounds: Michael always expected them to caw like crows. He was lulled.

Michael needed wisdom; he needed advice and reassurance. He needed to talk. The song of birds, the clatter of cups and plates, Henry's smile all gave him courage. Phil came in, looking like someone who was late for work, and even that somehow reassured Michael.

'Something very strange has happened,' he announced, his hands occupied with cutlery. 'I suddenly find that I can make copies of people, people I want to have sex with. I just ask for them, and there they are. They can be male, female, alive or dead, but they can't be photographed and they can change nothing in the real world.'

Michael picked up the coffee-pot and it began to chatter as if it were cold and its teeth were clicking. He couldn't quite hold it or think what to do with it. 'I find the whole thing disturbing, to tell you the truth.'

Phil kept his head down. 'They do say it runs in families,' he murmured and spooned jam on his toast.

Henry very gently took the coffee-pot out of Michael's grasp. 'Some people might find that hard to believe. They would probably say you were making it up.'

'Oh, oh there is definitely something physically here. I can touch them. It's just after they've gone nothing they've done gets left behind.'

'That's why people might not believe you.' Henry had soft, brown, trusting eyes. But they could be firm and trusting at the same time.

'Well, I can fix that! I can show them to you. Who do you fancy?' Michael was feeling boisterous. He could feel his curly hair bounce and his voice boom. He tried to think of musicians who might be trendy among 26-year-olds and could only come up with the Labour Party theme 'D. Ream?' Michael suggested, surprised he remembered the singer's name. Henry appeared unmoved. 'Liam Gallagher? How about the Castro brothers from Out Our Way? Here, look.'

The air wavered and parted like curtains.

Out Our Way was an established soap opera about the East End. It had turned two bald, burly actors into unlikely sex symbols.

Suddenly two bald and burly actors stood looking dazed by sunlight in a hundred-year-old sitting room in WC1.

'Holy Jesus!' cried Phil, and pushed back his chair, which dragged on the carpet then gave a low crack and nearly pitched him backwards out of the window.

'Wha'?' said one of the actors, his brow knitting together.

Michael explained like a tour guide. 'The trouble with actors is that they usually show up in character. You get Valentino as the Sheikh, not Valentino.'

'What are these posh geezers doin' 'ere then?'

'The dialogue is always terrible,' said Michael, his face giving a series of nervous sideways jerks that were meant to convey that the whole thing was mischievous fun.

Henry had gone very still and watchful, like a cat crowded into a corner. He fixed the brothers with an adult eye and asked them, 'What do you know?'

'About what?'

'Why you are here.'

Michael, ebullient, intervened. 'It's for sex. Drop 'em, lads.'

The Castro brothers looked dazed and obedient, and they lowered their trousers. One of them was wearing no underwear under his jeans. Two perfectly average, plump sets of genitalia soaked up the sun.

Michael felt merry. He felt as if he were no longer alone. He reached across the table and pushed the tip of Phil's nose. 'You wanted to do a show called Lust. Now you really can.' Philip tossed his head as if an insect annoyed him. 'You want to have sex with someone, you can. We all can, all of us.' Michael suddenly felt familial; the gesture included Henry.