He never saw the huge baby either, though the memory of it gave rise to dreams in which he became certain it had found its way through the walls of Gravuley Street to him at last. And in the end, he wished he hadn’t given his business card to MP Renoko. That gesture returned to haunt him too, because Renoko kept the card and later got in touch through Toni Reno, that well-known cunt; and that was how Fat Antoyne came by the mortsafe.

5am, Saudade: not late enough to be morning, too late to be night. Fat Antoyne stood out on the loading platform and stared across the noncorporate port at the dawn, just then arriving in streaks of pale green and salmon over the distinctive silhouette of the Rock Church. He wiped his hands. The rag, which had originally been a white cotton singlet of Irene’s, cropped short and bearing the slogan HIGGS, made him feel both horny and full of an almost nostalgic guilt. A little later, as if to further demonstrate his condition, Irene herself appeared, walking brassily across the windswept cement arm in arm with Liv Hula. They leaned into one another for balance – also a little forward as if compensating for a strong headwind – and sang. Irene was wearing a Vinci Nintendino bolero jacket featuring foot-long alien pinfeathers dyed pink. In one hand she clutched her signature see-thru cosmetics bag; in the other a pair of five-inch heels, red patent leather and with an otherworld glow all their own.

‘Hey,’ called Fat Antoyne.

They waved and called, ‘Hey! Fat Antoyne! Fat Antoyne!’ as if it were a big surprise to see him there, 5 am, on the rocketship they all three owned. Back on board the women tuned to Radio Retro and filled the air with old time hits, including Ya Skaju Tebe and Frenchie Haye’s understated but durable version of Lizard Men from Deep Time. They were sleepy, though prone to sudden inexplicable bursts of energy, during which they had brand new ideas about things in general. Soon, owlish but tending to giggle, they too were examining the payload.

‘Fat Antoyne, it’s big,’ was Irene’s conclusion.

‘Do you think?’ said Liv Hula. ‘It’s not as big as I expected.’

Fat Antoyne stared at them. ‘I could make you eggs,’ he said. It was a puzzle, the women often thought, how Antoyne maintained his new thin looks, when all he ever did was eat. ‘We could get eggs in the control room. Coffee and raisin bread too.’

Irene hung from her arms around his neck.

She said, ‘Or – Fat Antoyne, listen! Listen, Liv! – we could take a rickshaw to Retiro Street and dance! Eat cake!’

Liv, meanwhile, bent down and peered into the porthole.

‘Don’t encourage him,’ she said.

‘My turn,’ said Irene, pushing her away. ‘What’s a mortsafe anyway?’