Indignant Eric (shaking his head incredulously): ‘What amazes me is that people think they can come along and, eh, casually, eh, bury people alive.’

Mrs Chronos (carrying a huge hourglass, and wearing a tattered old ball gown): ‘Well, I must say, it’s nice to be wanted! Not a single part since the fourth act of The Winter’s Tale’ (warmly). ‘A play by Bill Shakespeare, of course – a lovely man, by the way, and a close personal friend. As the centuries slipped past I thought, “That’s right, just ignore me, I know when I’m not wanted.” ’ (Folds her arms and nods.) ‘People think of me as a character actor, but if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being typecast. Anyway,’ (little sigh) ‘I suppose it’s time to say my lines.’ (Pulling a face.) ‘Frankly, I find them a little bit old fashioned. People don’t seem to appreciate that I’m a modern girl.’ (Coy laugh.) ‘I just want to say one more thing,’ (serious now) ‘and that’s a big “thank you” to all my fans. You kept me going during the lonely years. Thank you for the sonnets, and the letters and the conversations, they mean a lot, they really do. Think of me sometimes, darlings, when your gums go black, and you can’t remember someone’s name.’ (Blows kisses to the audience. Then composes herself, smoothes the folds of her dress, and walks front stage.)

‘Since his death cannot be mended,

All our revels now are ended.

Think not harshly of our play

But come again another day.’

Attila the Hun (punches the lid off his coffin, making a sound of growling, snarling, hissing fury, like a leopard being baited through the bars of a cage): ‘Raaaarrrrrghh!’

Patrick shot bolt upright and banged his head on the leg of the chair. ‘Shit, wank, fuck, blast,’ he said in his own voice at last.

8

Patrick lay on the bed like a dead thing. He had parted the curtains for a moment and seen the sun rising over the East River, and it had filled him with loathing and self-reproach.

The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new. That was another first sentence.

Other people’s words drifted through his mind. Tumbleweed riding through a desert. Had he already thought that? Had he already said it? He felt bloated and empty at the same time.

Traces of the night’s possession surfaced now and again in the slowly simmering scum of his thoughts, and the experience of being so thoroughly and often displaced left him bruised and lonely. Besides, he had almost killed himself.

‘Let’s not go over that again,’ he murmured, like a beleaguered lover who is never allowed to forget an indiscretion.