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wriggling his fingers. I half expect to see
him trip over the cuffs of his extravagantly baggy jeans and tumble
downstairs. Apart from those he's wearing a T-shirt that says LET'S BOTH LAUGH over a chunky sweater. His blond hair looks as though he's
pulled the T-shirt off and on again. His doughy face is patched with red
and well on the way to growing oval. He blinks and holds out a bag of
humbugs striped like monochrome wasps. 'Care for one?' he says.
    'Not just now, thanks.'
    He more or less unwraps a mint before inserting it in his mouth,
then withdraws the cellophane wet with saliva. By now he's gazing
past me at the computer. 'Was that why you were crying?' he
wonders.
    'I wasn't crying about anything. I don't.'
    'Nothing wrong with letting yourself go now and then,' Joe says,
crumpling the cellophane in his fist. 'Get in touch with your other
self. Let me help.'
    I gather that he means with the computer when he tries to sidle
past me into the room. 'Better leave it to the experts.'
    'You're one, are you?'
    'On cinema I believe I am.'
    'Play it again, Sam, eh?' he says and narrows his pale eyes. 'What
film's that from?'
    'No film at all. He never says that in Casablanca .'
    'Good try but no prize. It's Woody Allen.'
    'He doesn't say it either.'
    'Good grief, they're only films. Chums don't fall out over silly
films.' Joe holds out his rustling fist as if he's handing me his litter to
bin. 'Anyway, there's an expert here. I'm your computer man.'
    'I'm sure you'll understand if I let the shop that built the system
deal with it.'
    His eyes grow moist, and he's parting his lips when the front door
begins to shake. A large dog is scrabbling at it, I gather once the
barking starts. 'Heel, girl. Heel,' Warren shouts outside.
    He and Bebe are beginning to remind me of uninvited pop-ups,
liable to appear wherever I am. Joe drops the humbug wrapper and
leaps downstairs, landing with a thud on every other step. 'Hang on,
Mr Halloran,' he yells. 'I'll let you in.'
    I haven't reached my desk when I hear a scuffle in the hall. 'Sit,
goddamn it,' Warren says. 'Hello, Joe. Whaddya know?'
    'Hello, Mr Halloran. Would the dog like a sweet?'
    'That's the way to make friends. Sure, I'll take one as well. What's
happening in my house?'
    'I was just trying to help Simon, but he doesn't seem to want me.'
    Warren's reply is blotted out by an outburst of barking. 'Hey,
Simon,' he calls once it subsides. 'Come meet Sniffer.'
    Is the name a joke? If it isn't, have I any reason to panic? My pipe
is somewhere in the room, but it hasn't been used for weeks, since I
ran out of the last of the grass Colin gave me as some kind of consolation.
Staying in my room might suggest an admission of guilt, and
so I tramp to the stairs. I've taken one step down when an inordinately
large black dog on an apparently endless lead charges at me,
and I can't help retracting my step. 'Don't let her think you're
frightened,' Warren advises as he reels in the lead. 'No reason you
should be, right?'
    'Not if you're in control.'
    The dog's head and shoulders strain above the top stair, and
Warren appears behind her. Does he want to observe how she reacts
to me? As he pays out the lead, she lunges to thrust her glistening
black nose against my trouser pocket. My keys grind against my hip,
and I'm about to protest when I remember that the keys are on my
desk. 'Looks like you've got a new buddy,' Warren says.
    How ironic is that meant to be? His default smile isn't telling, but
his eyes are watchful. 'You'll have to forgive me,' I say, which sounds
altogether too defensive, and try lying. 'I'm not too fond of dogs.'
    'I thought you told Natalie you were. Did my hearing screw up, do
you think? Or my memory?'
    'I couldn't say.' My trouser leg is growing wet as the dog's nose
tries to burrow through the fabric. 'If you could just –'
    'You're allowed to move, Simon. Not too fast, though.'
    As I back towards my room I wonder if he'll let the dog pursue me.
He holds it where it is,