‘How do you know this?’

‘Research.’ She doesn’t add ‘prole’ but she may as well have.

I try to look like I’m having a Spacetime chat even though I’m not, so that we’ll be less suspicious. Shandy is right, though. We’re only there for a few minutes when I see a woman with a red Royal Mail bag come swinging down the steps about ten houses up.

‘Post is approaching. Nine houses away. Now what?’ I say it out of the side of my mouth.

‘Follow my lead.’

Shandy times it so that the postie climbs the steps to Bernard’s building just as we arrive. The postie presses the buzzer. A woman’s voice answers.

‘I need a signature,’ says the postie. As the door buzzes open, we climb the steps. Shandy grabs the door with a breathless ‘thank you’ and we both pile in, past the postie. A door opens on the ground floor and an elderly woman comes out to sign for her parcel; meanwhile Shandy and me are on our way up the stairs.

‘How did you know she was going to get buzzed in?’ I whisper.

‘I sent something to the neighbour special delivery. It has to come by ten a.m., so I knew we were in.’

‘What did you send?’

I’m afraid she’s going to say vibrator or waxwork doll of Margaret Thatcher.

‘Chocolate, obvs. Now, let me do the talking.’

Shandy pounds on Bernard’s door so hard that plaster dust comes down in the stairwell.

‘I know you’re in there, Bernard! You can’t hide from me! I’m going to tell everyone in the building about your filthy little habit if you don’t open up.’

The door swings open. There he is looking exactly the way I remember him from the medical trial, except he’s only wearing boxers with a Planck Institute Surfing Team sweatshirt. He’s very tall and has the hairiest legs I’ve ever seen.

‘What filthy little habit? What do you want this time?’

This time?

‘We’re selling drugs, of course!’ Shandy. I shrink away from her. ‘Or no, wait, that would be you!’

He’s so angry, he’s spluttering. ‘Go away. Get treated.’

‘No, you get treated, you gambling addict!’

‘Whuh— I’m an engineer. I don’t need to sell drugs. I am not a gambling addict. Now please leave or I’ll call the police.’ While he’s talking, Shandy blows a purple bubble. Then she pops it.

‘Yeah, right, the police have nothing better to do than save six-foot-four neuroscientists from five-foot-one women. Are you going to let us in or not?’

‘Of course not, Darth Whackjob.’

Shandy turns to look at me and winks. ‘Tell him about the dreams, Chaz.’

At least she didn’t call me Horse.