‘No,’ I said. ‘This is an absolutely spectacular breach of MI6’s security protocols that’s going to land me in even deeper shit than I’m in already. But it’s all I’ve got right now. So, you know, how about it?’

She gave a deep sigh and carried on despite herself, determined, perhaps, to find out where this would take her.

‘So, I ask to be put through to extension “Stirling Lines”?’

‘No. Just say, “Stirling Lines”. Nothing else. There’ll be a delay.’ I relaxed and spoke calmly, deliberately. My smile was gone. There would be consequences to making the call that I couldn’t explain. I hoped my demeanour would prepare her for what might happen next. ‘You’ll be put through to another number. Someone else is going to answer the phone. Probably a man. More relaxed. Tell them you want to speak to Grumpy Jock. That’s it.’

She looked at me, uncomprehending. ‘That’s it?’

‘Yeah. That’s it. They’re going to put you through to a very grumpy Glaswegian.’

‘Of course they are. And what do I say to this charming Scotsman?’

‘Describe what you can see. Describe me. Describe what’s happened, where I am. Tell him anything you like. If he wants you to positively identify me, tell him I won’t give you my name.’ I thought for a moment. ‘But, uh, tell him about the scars. Tell him about the scar on my calf, and say I’d told you it was from Colombia and that I never got any thanks for it. Then just take his lead. And if you still don’t believe me, well …’ Well, then my luck would have run out like I always knew it would some day.

‘Why don’t you do it?’ Her voice was rising. ‘Why don’t you make the call on the speaker? I have to leave in thirty minutes.’ She offered me the phone. She was rattled now and obviously so. ‘Look, to be honest it’s more fun talking shit with you than playing mum to the junkies downstairs in ED, but why don’t you just do it, eh? You’ve convinced me you need to make a call. So make it.’ Fear crept into her speech, edging into the gaps between the syllables. Fear that she had made, was making, the wrong decision; but fear, too, that it was already too late to row back. She breathed out through her nose, and looked first at her shoes and then at me, remaking her decision anew, qualifying it as she went. ‘I don’t want to speak to anyone.’ She held the phone out further towards me. ‘You make the call. You speak and I’ll listen.’

I’ve watched people play at roulette like that, their hand hovering over their stack on red or black, odd or even, twitching to get it back until the wheel stops spinning.