The key I was holding in my hand was the red-bordered white card, the one I had been instructed never to use except when told to by a member of staff. I felt momentarily resentful of the complication they had created, which I would be penalized for. Why did they make things so difficult for people late at night?

I swallowed, tried to take control of myself again. With deliberate motions I reached deep into my pocket, swapped one key card for the other, then returned to the corridor and closed the door behind me. I counted to ten, glancing furtively from side to side along the corridor. I was unobserved. I slipped in the correct key with precise, over-elaborate care.

Inside the room the lights were off again, the television was dark and silent, as I was convinced I had left them. I pushed my hand against the master switch, then I turned on the other light switches by the door. The room filled with light.

I was embarrassed by my blurry physical condition, but also vexed by this hotel and its weird systems and warnings. Was every hotel in town as obsessively, inscrutably, bizarrely restrictive as the Dearth Plaza? There must be a crummy one-star pension located near the train station, or the bus depot, where guests could come and go as they pleased, leave on the TV when they went to the bar. Maybe if I had owned up to Prof Wendow from the start that I was not an academic of his ilk, nor even the holder of a degree, I might have ended up in such a place.

I used the toilet. I filled the hand basin with clear, cold water, then splashed it over my head. I took off the rest of my clothes and stepped into the shower cubicle. I ran a warm spray over me. Across the bathroom space I could see myself reflected in one of the wall mirrors. With concentration I stared across at myself critically – I was looking overweight, unhealthy, my skin was blotchy. When I was at home I always thought I looked better than this. Maybe it was hotels with their unforgiving lighting, their mirrors in places you did not expect them to be. That was an excuse, I knew, but there was a tiny truth in it. I flexed my stomach muscles, tried to pull them in. I had eaten too much, but also drunk far too much. The words threaded repetitively through my mind. I stood there in the shower spray, staring at myself in the mirror and wondering what kind of impression I must have made on the Harsent woman. Harsent – Frejah! Her name came back to me now. She told me always to call her Frejah.