Is it?

But then didn’t he say he was ‘off the hook’? As if the whole thing had been forced upon him? Against his will? By … by Kimberly, I suppose?

But couldn’t that just be yet another one of his cunning wiles? To befuddle me? To set me off track? To draw me in?

Am I being drawn in?

Oh God.

And now the dream?

If I can just … just … yes. If I can just get rid of him, somehow. Pay for his flight. Ship him off. Return his rent. Yes. If I return his rent surely that’ll help to even things out? Morally? And if he leaves very quickly – packs up and leaves, very quickly (like he says he wants to, like he plans to) – then surely everything can just be quietly … discreetly swept under the carpet? Resolved. Tied up. Finished off. Forgotten about. If I can just … Uh …

Eh?

If I can just … Uh …

Eh?

I awaken, abruptly, in a state of marginal discomfort. What is that? In the bed? I reach down, blindly, and discover the pen – the felt-tip – pressing into my leg. Ow. And I can tell, simply by testing with the pads of my fingers as I extract it, that the lid has come off.

Urgh.

I throw back the sheets and sit up; the fallen poster slithers under the bed. On the wall – where it once hung – are approximately a dozen 4004s, in different sizes, colours, hands. I scowl and look down: good heavens! There are tiny spots of ink everywhere! Everywhere! On my skin, my pyjamas, all over the bed linen! A riot of felt-tip ink! As I register the mess, I straighten the objects on my bedside table – my alarm clock has tipped over, my watch has … And two things strike me in rapid succession: it is one fifty! One fifty! I shake the clock, start looking for my wristwatch to confirm, but it’s fallen behind the headboard and as I reach out to lift the mattress I see that my hands …

Good God! My hands! My hands are all faded! The redness! The chapping! Quite faded! My hands are healing! But instead of a natural sense of joy (awe? Surprise? Gratification?) I feel an awful, dull, thudding sense of … of what? Disappointment? Aversion? Gnawing guilt? Can that be right? Can it? And … and … and it is one fifty! In the afternoon! Yes. And I’d promised to go to the bank to withdraw … to set right … to get rid of …

I throw on some clothes, grab my wallet and my cheque-book, and slam my way out of the house. I jump on to my bike, sprint to the bus-stop, chain it up and then wait for the bus, cursing. I wait for the bus. It finally arrives. I jump on to the bus. It’s almost empty. I sit down, look at my hands, marvel at them (that strange feeling again – in the pit of my stomach). I try and rub off the worst of the felt-tip (spit on an old tissue), but the ink is all but indelible. I curse again. I wipe the sleep out of my eyes and rub my index finger across my teeth. I make some basic financial calculations. We arrive in Rye. I clamber off the bus and sprint for the bank. I arrive at the bank and try the door. The bank is shut. Am I too late? The High Street is virtually empty. Across the road a man is delivering bread from a van to a little teashop. I ask him the time (why might he be delivering bread in the afternoon?). He gives me a curious look then inspects his watch. ‘Ten past seven.’