I lose it for a second. ‘Shut the hell up. Now is not the time.’

Deacon frowns. ‘Now is not the time? What the fuck’re you crying about, McEvoy? You get emotional after screwing, is that it? And what’s up with that hair?’

I briefly consider explaining who I was actually talking to, but there’s no way to present Ghost Zeb and not sound a little unstable.

‘Okay. Calm down for a minute. Think things through . . .’

Deacon cocks the gun, resplendently naked, not a self-conscious atom in her body, whereas I am very self-consciously naked.

‘I’m gonna think things through. That’s it exactly. Cuff yourself to the radiator, McEvoy.’

Cuffing myself would not be good.

‘Listen, Deacon . . . Come on, what’s your first name?’

‘Detective,’ says Deacon, tossing me the handcuffs from her belt.

‘You don’t want to do this.’

‘You’re a mind reader now, McEvoy? Those needles on your head some kind of antennae?’

That’s two hair jokes. I’m counting.

‘There are bad people after me, Deacon. You leave me here in restraints and I’m dead.’

Deacon shrugs and her breasts wobble, which some part of me can’t help noticing.

‘Don’t shrug. I’m fighting for my life here.’

‘You’re losing. Nice and tight now.’

Her eyes are golden and steady; she’s not changing her mind.

‘At least let me have the hat.’

Finally a smile; not the happy kind.

‘Look at you, McEvoy. Big sharpshootin’ soldier going to pieces without his hat. Didn’t seem to bother you earlier.’

‘Earlier, I had distractions.’

I swear her smile softens a degree; could be my imagination.

‘Yeah, distractions.’ Then the ice is back. ‘Now cuff yourself to the goddamn radiator or I will hobble you with a leg shot.’

I hate that word. Hobble. Halfway between hobbit and gobble, which for some reason does not conjure an appealing picture.

‘You’re not going to shoot me. We just . . .’

Deacon’s finger creaks on the trigger. ‘We just what? I shot Josie and I’ve been sleeping with her for eight months.’

I pick up the cuffs but never get the chance to fasten them on my wrists.

Deacon is multitasking when Mrs Delano comes through the door holding a steaming tray of lasagne. The detective has her gun on me and one big toe through the band of her panties. It is without doubt the most surreal moment of my life.

‘I hope you don’t mind me calling so early, Mister McEvoy,’ chirps Delano, made up like Cyndi Lauper circa ‘True Colours’. ‘Your friend, the nice repair man, gave me your new key, so I did a little cleaning up.’