His informant disposed of, Old George glances around the office incuriously. There’s a minor gale blowing through the hole in the glass wall; he walks over to the desk, locates the suicide note, and places the multitool atop it as a macabre paperweight. Then he picks up Sir David’s telephone handset in one gloved hand and dials an outside line. He waits for a minute as the call connects through to a voice mail number, punches in four digits, and replaces the receiver.

Then he leaves the office, merging with the homebound employees as they trickle out into the sheltering night.

He will deal with the rest of the loose ends tomorrow.

• • •

“YOU’RE A COMPLETE BASTARD, BOB.”

“Yes.”

“You—no, wait. You make me feel dirty. Like you’ve been cheating on me.”

I can’t be bothered to remind Mhari that we have not, in fact, been in a meaningful interpersonal relationship this decade—or that last time we were, she was the one who was sleeping around. (Mostly in an attempt to get my attention, I think. Or maybe to punish me for something I hadn’t done. I’m slow on the uptake, but I can figure it out eventually.) “You’re feeling dirty because you’ve just discovered that this isn’t a game. Congratulations, Mhari. Are you feeling thirsty?”

She glares at me, and for a moment I think I’ve gone too far. Her eyes are still cornflower blue but my inner vision shows me red-rimmed holes in a wall fronting a nightmare, glowing red worms writhing in a shimmering furnace . . . I blink. “You bastard, Bob. Of course I’m thirsty! It’s eating me up. Burning away at me, a constant ache. But now I’ve got anorexia. Thanks to you.”

“Well.” The wreckage of a very expensive meal sits strewn across the table between us. “We have a problem to solve, don’t we?”

“What problem?” Her blank-faced stare is even more worrying than her anger.

“How to keep you alive!” I snap. She recoils.

“What?”