The Cleary story is definitely a strange one. ‘Haunting’, even (woo-hoo!). But will she ever get around to telling it? Eh? Does she ever get around to telling a story? And aside from that (how can you write a story without actually telling a story?) I just feel like she’s really over-egging the pudding this time around. I can’t seriously imagine her Average Reader would approve (is that you? Or are you just flicking through this at your mother’s house during the Christmas holidays – bored out of your tiny mind – because it’s something she’s been forced to read by her book group?) (I don’t have a clue what a book group is. So I don’t even know why I mentioned that). I think they’ll all say she’s losing the plot. The book’ll bomb. It’ll be remaindered two days after publication and I’ll be remembered as one of her most unsuccessful characters, ever. Better still, one of the most unsuccessful fictional characters of all time. Great! Thanks a bunch! Yet further humiliations on the cards for Mr C. Bickerton Esq.!

Although … Although I’ve got no issues – none – with Orla. The Cleary girl. She was always very sweet. And brave. And pretty messed up, I suppose. By the slutty mother. The creepy priest. Her filthy bastard of a dad.

What other options did she have? Honestly? Being raised in such a crazy hothouse atmosphere? I’ve never … I don’t understand how … I mean all those pointless arguments – those constant, high-flown ‘discussions’ – about politics and money and religion and art. But she was a sweet kid, just the same. With that big old smile. Those tiny arms. Those funny little flippers instead of hands. Way too special (in my opinion) for someone like her to muck around with (why didn’t Edna O’Brien get involved? A real writer? The kind of writer who can always be depended upon to spin a good yarn?). But then nobody gives a damn what I think. Nobody. Nobody. Not Carla Hahn. Not Mr Huff. Not you. Not her. I am the Great Unheard. Clifford-Rusty Bickerton-Pemberton. The Giant Hairy Ignored.)

‘So get in the van,’ I suggest.

‘Okay.’

He climbs in (there’s no door on the passenger side, remember?) and puts on his seat belt.

‘Good idea.’ I smirk. ‘I’d really hate to lose you on a stiff corner.’

(The seat belt doesn’t actually work.)

In fact, the seat belt does work, but I’m wondering whether just saying it doesn’t work means – because of my supernatural powers etc. – that it won’t actually work. I’m not lying (these aren’t lies, as such – who could forget the ‘tacit deal’? Who would dare? Who would be stupid enough?), just … just experimenting with a couple of harmless, little … uh … improvisations. There’s nothing nasty or … or mean in it (I swear). It’s just an innocent experiment. And completely off the cuff. Not pre-planned in any way, shape or form. I am not (I repeat, not) messing about with what you might call the ‘building blocks’ of the plot. These are just silly details. Pointless little details.