He takes more than the recommended dose of Ibuprofen and retreats to his study, reading the file on a new referral and lightly sipping a whisky he tells himself is medicinal. Outside, the weather is turning nasty. Though it is barely four, the sky has darkened sufficiently for him to need his desk lamp, and rain is clattering against the window like random bursts of gunfire. The phone rings and he ignores it. His lips and tongue are only partially revived and he is afraid he will sound disabled, or drunk. But the ringing doesn’t stop.

Mmm? he says. He doesn’t want to say hello. He is hoping the other person will speak and he will be able to say very little.

Hello? says a woman’s voice.

Shit! he thinks, and goes to put the phone down, but the drug kicks in. Unsure whether the emotion-fuelled action was the right one, he lifts the receiver, tentatively, back to his ear.

Logan, is that you?

Without question, it’s Gabrielle Salmon.

Yesh, he says.

The line is quiet for a moment. Perhaps she is trying to work out if it really is him.

Been on the whisky? she asks.

The still half-asleep tongue, like a teenager on a weekend, raises itself with difficulty. It touches the roof of his mouth softly.

Gno, it says.

What’s wrong with you?

How to tell her about the dental work in the least words, with the fewest consonants? But it turns out that she doesn’t mean his speech. She continues, with barely a pause, I’ve had my grant cut. I’ve had police turn up at the centre, confiscate my computer, all my research data… what the fuck is going on? What have you done?

Numb, numb. The swear word tells him she’s angry, but her tirade has washed him into a place of absolute peace, absolute wordlessness.

Logan! I’m talking to you! Whatever you’ve done, undo it. Seriously. I’ve been charged under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. This is insane.