He closed the door of the ‘bachelor’s room’, leaned his back against it, crossed one leg over the other, hands clasped behind him, rolled his head slowly from side to side against the polished wood. ‘Well,’ he said aloud. ‘Well I never did.’ He grinned, shook his head. Crazy! The whole set-up, the whole day, crazy. God knows, I’ve been around in my short life but I have never come across a lot like this one before: I really didn’t know they existed. They are all nuts. Nutty as a Fuller’s walnut. Archie Charlie with his pretend cigarettes, his collection, brasses, belts, buckles, maps, battle scenes on every wall, books spilling from shelves and chairs, the wax-figure in full uniform staring glassily into space. I mean, if that isn’t freaky, then what the hell is? And his wife, Cuckoo. Still pretty, I have to admit that; even wet, shivering, pale and tired. Still smashing looking. Must have been a knock-out once; almost is still. Almost. But what about her? Dragging herself about with pockets full of bloody great rocks. What was that all about, I’d very much like to know. But probably never will. A conspiracy, she said. Thanks for the conspiracy! She’s welcome. Freaks. Really freaky. Out of this world, practically lost and forgotten: a wiped tape. The dinosaurs in the V & A or stuffed birds in dusty glass cases: better really, because you don’t have to imagine them. There are still faded signs of splendour. But dusty. Locked away, sealed up, colours dimmed. Christ! I’m bright.

He lifted the edge of the large Persian rug with his toe, pressed it flat again, smoothed it carefully. And how the hell did I get involved?

By interfering, she said. ‘You interfered!’ Really pissed off. Almost disappointed. But what the hell else do you do when an elderly woman chucks herself into the sea three feet from your nose? Wave goodbye?

‘Bonkers,’ he said, and went across to his rucksack standing neatly on a chair by the high wooden bed and fished about for a packet of cigarettes which he remembered he had put there earlier in the day, before all this had started, when he was walking along the coast road from Villefranche and thinking that that little cove across the bay might be the best place to shack up for the night.

But instead I have the ‘bachelor’s room’. Very masculine. Heavy wood, military chests, gleaming brasses; brass everywhere. Lamps with green glass shades, a fat, buttoned leather chair, small club-fender before the fireplace, pictures covering the white-washed walls. Engravings in maple-wood frames. Seen enough of those in my time.