‘I thought I was getting better,’ she says, and her voice is half a sob. ‘I’ve been remembering people’s names. It’s Tuesday, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it’s Tuesday. The pigeon may have been sent to you in a dream, Daphne, and that’s why there’s no evidence. Do you record your dreams?’

‘Me? No, never. O didn’t trust that BigSky, you know. I don’t use any recording devices. I’m not even sure if I want to remember my dreams. They can be quite dark at times, you see.’

I still don’t know if she’s aware of killing O. I have to come out with it, I can’t back off.

‘Daphne, do you remember being in O’s dream with me? At her place in France?’

‘Now, are we supposed to feed them or were we just checking the water?’ Daphne says.

‘Why would the Agency want O dead?’ I press.

‘Next time you come, bring my sister’s pigeons. Someone will have to look after them now she’s gone.’

* * *

The flat is too quiet when I get back. Feeling wobbly, I close O’s bedroom door. Can’t believe she’s fucking dead, how dare she check out on me like this? I kick her desk, but that only hurts my foot. So I wodge up her favourite afghan into a ball and throw it. This is even less satisfying than it sounds. Eventually I end up crying into Edgar’s fur. Luckily Meera soon shows up with food. And tea. I sniff my tea but for obvious reasons don’t drink it.

I fill Meera in on O’s death and the details of its circumstances. She says, ‘How awful!’ and makes the right noises in the right places. She listens intently to my account of O’s justification, shaking her head and looking pained at the worst bits. Maybe she’s acting, but I don’t think so.

‘So,’ I finish, trying to sound brisk but coming off a bit desperate, ‘there’s a thing growing into my skull and I gather you’ve been talking to it.’

‘I suppose you could put it that way. Through a computer feedback interface.’

‘So all of your extended experimentation on me, via BigSky, via Little Bird, all of your using me as a crash-test dummy – was there a plan to eventually tell me what was going on, or was I slated for destruction, too, once you’d got what you wanted?’