Let me tell you this: I happen to know something else about Andrew. Eight years ago, he was driving across my ribs in one of his other replacement metal penises – an SUV retailing at over £70,000 – and hit a young pony, while breaking the speed limit by a total of 34 mph. He very forcefully felt the impact of the pony, which broke the SUV’s radiator grill and bumper and smashed its left headlight, and, though it was dark, saw the animal’s descent over a ridge at the side of the road, to some rocks directly beneath, where the pony died, not quickly, but ninety-four full long minutes later, watched by three other ponies, who stood directly above it. But Alan decided to drive on, and to this day has still never told another soul about the incident. He was on his own in his SUV at the time, but even so, he still spoke aloud, directly after the impact, as if justifying himself to a friend. The words he spoke were, ‘Ah sod it, it’s just a bloody wild pony. Nobody even owns it.’ He then drove over my hips, which nobody owns, and my knee, which nobody owns, to one of the houses which he bought with his wife, who nobody owns, where he was meeting his mistress, who nobody owns, where he would later take some cocaine, which was once owned by a man called Jake, who lived in London’s Holland Park.

I know quite a bit more – but by no means everything – about what Andrew has done in his life, but this is the bit I take most personally.

So, no, when those pebbles were landing in the water near Andrew’s jet ski, I was not just hoping he, trailed by Fin and Reuben, would piss off and leave the swimmers and sunbathers on the beach in peace. I was hoping that one of the pebbles would connect with his temple, and knock him into the water. Harsh? Maybe. But perhaps you are ascribing values to me that are not relevant to my kind. You have been lulled by my chatter and my jokes and the familiar names I call my constituent parts, lulled into forgetting that I am not a man or a woman or anything close. Also, I haven’t done anything to hurt anyone (on this occasion); I am just feeling what I feel.

I desire love. I want to see it thrive. But I also want blood. I want it to seep into me and do its work. I want a balance redressed.

PAPPS WEDGE (2043)

‘Get David Cavendish to sign that bloody document.’ These had been Sally’s words to Bob as he leaned in close to her over the bed in the hospital room that overlooked the half-empty skip and the three-quarter-empty car park, and then she had died.