The bill for two thousand one hundred and fifty-three dollars was larger than even Patrick had expected. He was secretly pleased. Capital erosion was another way to waste his substance, to become as thin and hollow as he felt, to lighten the burden of undeserved good fortune, and commit a symbolic suicide while he still dithered about the real one. He also nursed the opposite fantasy that when he became penniless he would discover some incandescent purpose born of his need to make money. On top of the hotel bill, he must have spent another two or two and a half thousand on taxis, drugs, and restaurants, plus six thousand for the air tickets. That brought the total to over ten thousand dollars, and the funeral expenses were on their way. He felt like a gameshow winner. How irritating if it had been eight and a half or nine. Ten thousand in two days. Nobody could say he didn’t know how to have fun.

Patrick tossed his American Express card onto the counter without bothering to verify the bill.

‘Oh, by the way,’ he yawned, ‘I’ll sign the form, but could you leave the total open? A friend of mine is still in the room. She may want breakfast; in fact, I’m sure she will. She can order anything she likes,’ he added munificently.

‘O-kay.’ The receptionist hesitated, wondering whether to make an issue of the double occupancy. ‘She’ll be leaving the room by noon, will she?’

‘I suppose so. She works, you see,’ said Patrick as if this were rather exceptional. He signed the credit-card form.

‘We’ll send a copy of the total to your home address.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t bother to do that,’ said Patrick, yawning again. He noticed the bellboy standing nearby with his bag. ‘Hello,’ he smiled. ‘Rivers of blood, eh?’

The bellboy looked at him with servile incomprehension. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. Might be a good idea to get some sleep.

‘I hope you enjoyed your stay with us,’ said the receptionist, handing Patrick a copy of the bill in an envelope.

‘Enjoyed isn’t the word,’ said Patrick with his most charming smile, ‘I loved it.’ He refused the envelope with a little frown. ‘Oh my God,’ he suddenly exclaimed, ‘I’ve forgotten something in the room.’ He turned to the bellboy. ‘There’s a wooden box on top of the television; you couldn’t go and fetch it for me, could you? And the brown-paper bag would be very useful too.’

How could he have forgotten the box? No need to call Vienna for an interpretation. What would they have done on the bleak Cornish estuary where his father had asked to have his ashes scattered? He would have had to bribe a local crematorium to give him some of their spare sweepings.