He overtook a van and wondered what had happened to the table tennis player. They’d endeavored to find a connection between them in six stages or less. They’d gone through everything. Childhoods, friends, schools, relations, holidays. They’d taken a long detour to prolong the game. Nothing had come up, to their disappointment.

It wasn’t an exact science, she had said, and wrote her phone number on the Sinatra cassette cover. She’d given him the tape as well.

794

Unfunny John’s hands were shaking. He still couldn’t see his audience. Why didn’t they turn the lights down? Sweat poured into his eyes and dislodged a contact lens. It fell out. John tried to catch it in his hands but failed. One eye went blind.

793

Michael drove through one of the city’s long and satisfying underpasses thinking about the table tennis player. Even if she’d quit sports, she’d still be quite firm, unlike his wife. And he’d bet she was phobia-free. He bet she flew, bet she was adventurous.

He felt in the glove compartment for the cassette cover to find out if her telephone number was still legible.

It had been a year ago, it might have faded.

In the flashing lights of the underpass he was just able to decipher it. Well, no harm in giving . . .

792

Another insult hit Unfunny John in the face and the corner of his eye ticked nervously. “Tosser yourself,” he said feebly.

“Who booked this arsehole?” said someone.

Miles fidgeted nervously at the back. This isn’t how he thought the evening would go.

“You can’t make me leave,” said John. “I have things to say.”

“Piss off!”

“Please listen.”

“Piss off!”

Everyone was saying piss off. Fuck off.

John began to tremble.

“Get this twat off the stage.”

John twitched in the spotlight. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

“I’m not a twat,” he muttered weakly.

“Bollocks!” shouted someone else.

A tit hit him. And another, a left and a right. Both flanks. There was a lot of overlapping, he couldn’t distinguish individual attacks.

Backstage a big bearded comic was looking from the wings slack-jawed. This was as bad as he’d seen it.

Shelley too. She left. She grabbed her stuff and went down the fire escape. The other comic had already gone: he heard the first “wanker” and called a cab from his mobile.

Someone flicked a lit cigarette onto the stage. The burning end hit John’s lapel and bounced off. Unfunny John’s eyes glazed. He was rooted to the spot like a man who’d been hit hard on the head but hadn’t yet gone down.