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of the feet touching the ground first, as if ready to spring at the slightest shock. He didn’t look like a former SBS officer, or a professional killer, more like a junkie itching for a fix, but there was something in his cat-like walk that was unnerving. The room was still filled with music, but Donaldson knew that Howells was moving silently.
    He stepped back as Howells slid the window open and Pink Floyd swelled out. Howells didn’t say anything, but he reached up and gently smoothed the underside of his chin with the back of his hand as he studied Donaldson. Donaldson’s bladder was suddenly heavy. His mind was whirling, wondering exactly what he should say. Hiya Geoff, remember me? Perhaps Mr Howells, I presume? How about ‘ I’m sorry I must have the wrong address ’ and then getting the hell out of here said the voice in his head. He coughed quietly, trying to clear his throat. How could his body be soaking in sweat while his mouth was so dry, he thought.
    ‘Geoff Howells?’ he said hesitantly.
    Howells nodded slowly, still stroking his beard.
    ‘Er – can I come in?’
    Howells said nothing.
    ‘Grey sent me,’ Donaldson added, almost as an afterthought. ‘From London,’ he continued lamely.
    Howells smiled, a lazy confident smile that revealed white, even teeth. It seemed like a real smile, the smile of a friend, not the plastic version of a used-car salesman. Donaldson immediately felt easier and relaxed. Howells stood to one side and opened the french window further.
    ‘Come in,’ he said, and Donaldson was surprised at how soft and gentle the voice was. ‘I’m afraid we don’t get many visitors.’
    Donaldson stepped over the threshold. He shivered as he passed Howells. Did he remember him? Probably not. Something to do with the brainwashing, maybe.
    The room was square, about twenty feet by twenty. To the left were two doors of a dark red wood that looked as if it would be warm to the touch. There was no aircon, though a fan set into the white-painted ceiling was doing its best to keep the air moving. The walls were white, dotted with framed prints of what looked like Balinese gods. Tasteful, thought Donaldson, but somehow sinister. They weren’t gods to help the unfortunate and protect the weak, they were vengeful gods who would kill and maim. Between the two doors was a large carved wooden chest with a big brass lock set into the front and a stack of newspapers and magazines on top. The furniture was made of the same red wood as the doors: a long, low sideboard, a bookcase full of paperbacks, and a rattan three-piece suite with cream coloured cushions. The girls were standing together behind one of the wooden chairs, holding hands and looking at Donaldson from lowered eyes. To their left was a racked stereo system, matt black and expensive with waist-high speakers. He jumped as the window thumped shut behind him. He turned to find Howells watching him with an amused smile on his face. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
    ‘No,’ replied Donaldson. ‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’
    There was a sickly sweet smell in the air. Incense. It was coming from some sort of shrine set into the wall between the doors, a wooden box open at the front and painted a garish crimson. There were three sticks of incense smouldering away, and in front of them there seemed to be pieces of rotten fruit and a small garland of yellow flowers. Howells sat in one of the chairs and stretched his long legs out in front of him.
    Donaldson sat down on the settee and balanced his bag on his knees. That felt uncomfortable so he put it by his side. ‘Well,’ he said, and Howells raised his eyebrows.
    The album was almost finished, the second to last track, Brain Damage , and the words echoed through Donaldson’s head. ‘ You raise the blade, you make the change, you rearrange me till I’m sane .’ Very apt, thought Donaldson, except that it hadn’t been a surgeon’s scalpel that had changed Howells’