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serious,’ Patrick said. ‘But it never bothers me. I don’t like stuff cooked in them anyway so I just keep away from them.’
    ‘You think they’re dangerous?’
    ‘I didn’t say that.’
    She giggled again. ‘They’re perfectly safe.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘You’re weird.’ She took another bite and talked as she chewed. ‘So this is like, a British version of pizza but with, like, no flavour.’
    ‘I told you. You need the Worcestershire sauce.’
    ‘I’ll get some in for next time.’
    And then Patrick did it.
    He paused. Not a long, pensive, Did she really say that ? kind of pause, but an instinctive, momentary pause, a pause long enough to transmit the message. The message was: What next time?
    Their eyes locked. For a few seconds her face toyed with a measure of displeasure, but she recovered, smiled politely, and carried on eating.
    For a few minutes their minds and eyes concentrated on the job in hand, making their way through supper, its yellowy-brown oil now starting to turn to solid fat.
    ‘Deedee’s nice,’ Patrick said eventually.
    ‘You think so, huh?’
    Patrick tried to gauge the words, especially the ‘huh’. Was that a huh of the jealous variety? Did it tell him what he needed to know?
    He finished his final slice, wiped the grease and crumbs from his mouth, and reached for his watch.
    Joni grunted a ‘hold on’, her mouth still chewing, and he checked himself. She forced her last mouthful down with an audible gulp. ‘My compliments to the chef,’ she said.
    ‘Thank you,’ Patrick said. ‘I have to say, I found the Chateau Laffite Seven-up 2005 the perfect accompaniment.’ He took a swig from the bottle, whooshed it through his teeth a couple of times and swallowed.
    And then, as soon as had he placed the bottle down on the bedside table, Joni’s mouth clamped onto his, sucking the fresh sugary moisture from it.
    Okay, so he didn’t have to go just yet. As Joni’s head moved down to his neck, almost suckling on it, he turned to check the time by Homer Simpson’s hands. Just after ten.
    Well, it was a duty – a service, even. It would be okay.
    As long as he didn’t fall asleep afterwards.
    Okay, so he hadn’t had a bad dream for days, but he still held the fear in his soul. So yes, he could stay as long as he didn’t fall asleep.
    An hour later Patrick lay on his back in the half-light thrown by the street lights outside. Joni’s red straggle of hair trailed across his chest, filling his nose with the scent of almonds, sweet honey, and a little sweat of passion. He closed his eyes and let his head relax, lolling slightly to one side.
    So what if he did fall asleep here and the worst thing happened? If he woke up shouting at least it would force his hand, and then he’d have to tell someone. Perhaps that would be for the best.
    But no – that was just being lazy.
    He opened his eyes wide again, stretching out the skin of his eye sockets. No, that would be madness. He might scare the poor girl to death if he started speaking during one of his…
    He glanced down again to Joni’s resting figure and stroked her bare shoulder which was hidden between streams of that fragrant hair.
    His eyes gradually fell shut once more.
    No, no.
    ‘Joni,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry, I need to leave.’
    The reply was instant: ‘No you don’t.’
    ‘I do.’
    ‘Stay here.’
    ‘I can’t.’
    ‘You have to.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because I’ve locked up the front door.’
    ‘I still need to go.’ Patrick held Joni’s head up and slipped out of bed, putting a pillow under her head where his shoulder had been. She settled there, and as she fell back to sleep Patrick got dressed and put his coat and shoes on.
    He quietly crept out to the front door.
    There was a latch, but also a lock with a keyhole – an empty keyhole. And, as Joni had said, it was locked.
    He went back into the bedroom, now making a little more noise than before.
    He leaned down to Joni and nudged her awake