Still, tomorrow might bring forth miracles.

He turned on the television, just to be with other people, to hear voices other than his own. And he sat down to read Barlow’s report. The word necrophage stood out: an organism that specifically lived off decaying flesh, that put down roots, sprouted fruiting bodies and sent out spores. And it kept the flesh in a kind of stasis for as long as it could, as it fed off it.

Jesus. They should make a horror film …

Under ‘Use as a drug’, Barlow had written about the addict’s intense need to locate any object seen in a hallucination. ‘At the height of this desire, users will buy, borrow or steal the object in question.’ It sounded crazy. And yet … Hobbes turned to view the wall, where a dress hung on a wire hanger, a blue dress with yellow flowers. He had taken it from Bridlemere last night, a souvenir. He remembered the urge to do so. The memory shamed him, the way he’d acted, caressing his face with the fabric. Christ almighty! But now, at least, maybe he had a reason for that, in the effect of the musk on his brain. It felt good to blame an outside source.

He looked down at the coffee-table, at the photograph his son had left in the album, in replacement for the wedding photo, remembering Martin’s late-night visit, and his urgent demand to be given the old wristwatch. The wedding photo, the watch …

Hobbes returned to Barlow’s report. He found the section that detailed symptoms of overuse, or physical changes the drug brought to the body.

… highly addictive … linked to verbal outbursts, or problems with anger … vomiting … patches of skin may be tinged with a blue or mauve colouring … evidence of contact …

The inspector stopped reading as the pieces clicked into place.

Fifteen minutes later he was driving along Upper Richmond Road, heading east. He couldn’t remember getting to the car, or setting off, only the action of moving by instinct. One task in mind. The streets were fairly quiet, each lamp a passing blur, the night shops a blaze of colour. Heart pounding, and his hands trembling on the wheel, sticky with sweat. He slowed down and tried to concentrate, leaning forward in the seat, eyes fixed on the road ahead, each junction, each traffic light. Martin’s face …

Martin’s face, that look of need …

The wristwatch, the fingertips, the gloves, hiding his shame …

Hobbes blinked in the glare of approaching headlights. He was on Peckham Road, heading for the high street, before he relaxed again and felt his hands unclench. He turned on to Cavalier Road and brought the car to a stop outside the squat. Cromwell House. He could hear music from within the archway of the building. People were moving around in the central forecourt.

It was a quarter past nine.

Hobbes got out of the car. He didn’t let fear take hold: he was probably beyond such feelings. Instead he marched straight into the place and continued to walk until he met the first group, two boys and a girl. They looked at him with surprise in their eyes.