‘When I died in the hospital,’ said Pierre, ‘j’avais une conscience sans limites. I knew everything, man, literally everything. After that I cannot take seriously the sociologues et psychologues who say you are “schizoid” or “paranoid”, or “social class two” or “social class three”. These people know nothing. They think they know about the human mind, but they know nothing, absolument rien.’ Pierre glared vehemently at Patrick. ‘It’s like they put moles in charge of the space programme,’ he sneered.

Patrick laughed drily. He had stopped listening to Pierre and started searching for a vein. When he saw a poppy of blood light up the barrel, he administered the injection, and pulled out the syringe, flushing it out efficiently this time.

He was amazed by the strength and smoothness of the heroin. His blood became as heavy as a sack of coins and he sank down appreciatively into his body, resolved again into a single substance after the catapulting exile of the cocaine.

‘Exactly,’ he whispered, ‘like moles . . . God, this is good smack.’ He closed his eyelids lingeringly.

‘It’s pure,’ said Pierre. ‘Faîtes attention, c’est très fort.’

‘Mm, I can tell.’

‘It’s medicine, man, medicine,’ Pierre reiterated.

‘Well, I’m completely cured,’ whispered Patrick with a private smile. Everything was going to be all right. A coal fire on a stormy night, rain that could not touch him beating against the windowpane. Streams made of smoke, and smoke that formed into shining pools. Thoughts shimmering on the borders of a languorous hallucination.

He scratched his nose and reopened his eyes. Yes, with the firm base provided by the heroin, he could play high notes of cocaine all night without cracking altogether.

But he’d have to be alone for that. With good drugs, solitude was not just bearable, it was indispensable. ‘It’s much more subtle than Persian smack,’ he croaked. ‘A gentle sustained curve . . . like a, like a polished tortoise shell.’ He closed his eyes again.

‘It’s the strongest smack in the world,’ said Pierre simply.

‘Ya,’ drawled Patrick, ‘it’s such a bore, one can hardly ever get it in England.’

‘You should come and live here.’

‘Good idea,’ said Patrick amiably. ‘By the way, what’s the time?’

‘One forty-seven.’

‘Gosh, I’d better go to bed,’ said Patrick, putting the syringes carefully into his inside pocket. ‘It’s been lovely seeing you again. I’ll be in touch very soon.’

‘OK,’ said Pierre. ‘I’m awake tonight, tomorrow, and tomorrow night.’

‘Perfect,’ said Patrick nodding.

He put on his jacket and overcoat. Pierre got up, undid the four security locks, opened the door, and let him out.

7

Patrick slumped back in the chair. The tension was deleted from his chest. For a moment he fell quiet. But soon a new character installed itself in his body, forcing his shoulders back and his stomach out, and launching him into another bout of compulsive mimicry.