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spasm hit. I leaned against a keg, trying to still my hammering heart. Finally, I moved and I slowly climbed up the stairs. The bar was hopping, almost all the space occupied. No sign of Bill, Nev or the giant. Black dots danced before my eyes and I pushed forward, shouted,
    “Large Jameson.”
    N o response. I edged in past a docker who gave rne the look. Whatever he saw in my face, he decided to give me room. The barman continued to ignore me. I shouted,
    “Gimme a bloody Jameson.”
    He stopped, grinned, said,
    “You had your shots; now you’re barred.”
    Guffaws from the crowd. I slunk out of there with my soul in ribbons. Wouldn’t you know, the weather had picked up, an almost bright sun, high in the sky. A man passing, said,
    “Isn’t it great to be alive?”
    I had no answer. Least none that didn’t require fisticuffs.
    Pure rage can operate on either of two levels. There’s the hot, smouldering, all-encompassing kind that instantly lashes out. Seeking immediate annihilation. There’s the second that comes from a colder place. Fermented in ice, it withdraws upon itself, feeding on quiet ferocity for a suitable occasion. This is the deadliest.
    Most of my battered life, I’d been afflicted with the second, and with dire consequences. As I watched the sun bounce off the water, I submerged in this. The claws of patience suckingdeep into my psyche felt as dangerous as I’d ever felt.
    Such times, to stir the cauldron, my mind seizes on a mantra to keep the madness corralled. A mental front to help me function as the fires are built within. There is never rhyme or reason to the chant. My subconscious throws up some non-related barrier to maintain my mobility. When I’d been discharged from the guards, I’d had one session with a psychiatrist and outlined the above.
    He said,
    “You’re bordering on pathological psychosis.”
    I’d stared at him for full five minutes, then answered,
    “That’s what I was hoping for.”
    He’d offered a course of tranquillizers, and to that I’d given him my police smile. The one that says,
    “Watch your back.”
    As I turned from the docks and walked towards Merchant’s Road, the mantra began.
    Hannibal Lector’s words to Clarice Starling in the dungeon for the criminally insane:
     
You are an ambitious, hustling little ruhe. Your eyes shine like cheap shoes but you have some taste, a little taste.
     
    Over and over, those words played, and I was back at the hotel before I realised. A homeless person approached, and I mechanically handed over some money. He wasn’t pleased, asked,
    “That’s all you got?”
    I turned to him, touched his shoulder, said,
    “I’ve some taste, a little taste.”
    He took off like that bat out of Meatloaf’s hell.
    _______
     
    In my room, I’d lain on the bed, fully clothed, and shut my eyes. Not sleep or even a close approximation but a trancelike state that pulled me down to an area of nonconsciousness. Teetering on catatonia, I remained thus till darkness fell.
    When I came to, the fear had fallen away. I acknowledged a hard granite-like lump lodged beside my heart and said,
    “The show must go on.”

 
    “Olivia leaned forward in her turn and patted his thigh affectionately.
‘You know what we have in common, sweetheart? We’re both
nonentities. Nonentities in reckless pursuit of nonentity.’ ”
    A.
Alvarez,
Hunt
    I was sitting on the bed, trying to read, couldn’t concentrate, so put it aside.
    I headed for Nestor’s. The sentry was in position, gave me a look and said,
    “Watch out.”
    He did an unheard of thing. He actually moved stools, away from me. I could only guess at how hostile was the vibe I was transmitting. Jeff said,
    “How’s it going, Jack?”
    His expression said,
    “I’m not sure I want the answer.”
    I gave a slow smile, said,
    “Couldn’t be better. Can I get something?”
    “Sure . . . coffee OK?”
    “No . . . it’s not, . . . I’d like a large Jameson.”
    He looked round