He was overcome with loathing and contempt. The girl was completely out of control. Whereas drugs were at least amenable to advertising: life on the edge, exploring the inner Congo, the heart of darkness, outstaring death, returning with the scars and medals of a haunting knowledge, Coleridge, Baudelaire, Leary . . . ; and even if this advertising seemed horribly false to anyone who had taken drugs at all seriously, it wasn’t possible even to pretend that there was anything heroic about an eating problem. And yet there was something unsettlingly familiar about Rachel’s obsessive greed and ridiculous dishonesty.

‘Can we go now?’ snapped Patrick.

‘Yeah, OK,’ said Rachel timidly.

He ordered the check, threw down a twenty-dollar bill before it arrived, and wriggled out of the booth. Another fucking taxi drive, he thought.

‘I feel kinda nau-tious,’ complained Rachel, as they went up in the hotel elevator.

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Patrick severely, ‘I feel nauseous and I was only watching.’

‘Hey, you’re pretty hos-tel.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Patrick, ‘I’m awfully tired.’ Better not lose her now.

‘Me too,’ said Rachel.

Patrick unlocked the door, and switched on the lights.

‘Sorry about the mess.’

‘You should see my apartment.’

‘Maybe I will,’ said Patrick, ‘and all that Neo-Objective art.’

‘Definitely,’ said Rachel. ‘Can I use the bathroom?’

‘Of course.’

Time to mix a quick fix, thought Patrick, as he heard the lock slide closed on the bathroom door. He fished the coke from his suitcase and the smack from his inner left pocket, took the spoon from the back of the bottom drawer, and retrieved the half-bottle of Evian he had hidden, with unnecessary caution, behind the curtain. There might not be many more opportunities, and he’d better make a strong speedball to reduce the number of fixes to a minimum. He mixed the smack and coke together, dissolved them and drew the solution into the syringe.

He was ready, but how long did he have before Rachel emerged from the bathroom? With his hearing strained, like a man listening to his footsteps on a creaking staircase, he concentrated on the sounds coming from the bathroom. The muffled noise of vomiting, followed by a little rasping cough, reassured him that there would be time for a fix.

Taking no risks, he stuck the spike into a thick vein in the back of his hand. The smell of cocaine assailed him and he felt his nerves stretching like piano wires. The heroin followed in a soft rain of felt hammers playing up his spine and rumbling into his skull.

He groaned contentedly and scratched his nose. It was so pleasurable, so fucking pleasurable. How could he ever give up? It was love. It was coming home. It was Ithaca, the end of all his storm-tossed wanderings. He dropped the syringe into the top drawer, staggered across the room, and sprawled on the bed.