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of the art, practically works itself. What I’d like you to do, Mr. Dalziel, is keep a sort of audio diary.
    Make a record of your feelings, your experiences, anything that comes into your mind.”
    “You mean, you want me to start talking to myself?” I said. “Like the nutters do?”
    “No, no,” he said. “Not to yourself. Just talk as if you’re speaking to someone who knows absolutely nothing about you.”
    “Like you, for instance?” I said.
    He gave me a smile I could’ve played “Chopsticks” on and said, “I do in fact know a little about you. And I don’t want you to think you’re addressing me specifically. In fact, let me assure you, Mr. Dalziel, I will never listen to any part of it without your permission.”
    “So if you’re not going to hear it, what’s the point?” I asked.
    “The point is you saying things, not me hearing them,” he said. “You can keep a record of all those interesting little thoughts we so easily lose track of. Also you can ask yourself some of the really Big Questions.
    Think of it as part journal, part self-interrogation. I’m sure a man with your skills will be able to detect truth through no matter how cunningly woven a web of evasion and deceit. Will you do that for me?”
    I said, “Mebbe. But if I don’t get some grub soon, I may just swallow it anyway.”
    He went off, laughing. And that’s how I come to be lying here, talking to myself like a loony. Took another couple of days afore I dug Fester’s little toy out. Man in bed’s got to play with something. Nowt else to do. Newspapers these days aren’t fit to wrap chips in. Telly’s worse, and they don’t feed me enough grub to enjoy a good crap!
    Can’t even do a runner. First, I’ve got no clothes. Spoke to Cap on the phone and she says she’ll bring me some soon as they let her visit me.
    Second, got to face it, my leg’s getting there, but I’m not back to running mode yet. I dumped them poncy elbow crutches they gave me at the hospital and got Cap to buy me a stout walking stick. I’m okay for short bursts, but after a couple of minutes, I’m ready for a sit-down.

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    R E G I N A L D H I L L
    Got to keep reminding myself, there’s a world out there, a real world with people in it, and pubs, and it’s likely full of scrotes pissing themselves laughing ’cos I’m stuck in here, talking to a machine.
    Let them laugh.
    I’ll be back.
    Sure as eggs.

    4
    FROM:
    [email protected]
    TO:
    [email protected]
    SUBJECT: an exciting journey!
    Hi!
    Nothing from you—maybe your teaky bronzy doc is keeping you busy—nudge nudge.
    Ive made it to Sandytown—just finished unpacking in Kyoto House—built on a cliff top to catch all them healthy breezes—very eco-friendly—solar panels—wind driven generator—etc etc. Lovely room—looking out over the North Sea—all blue & sparkly just now—but I hope we get a storm before I go. Funny that—only other time I was here I prayed for warm sunshine—this time I want thunder & lightning!
    The journey first—we stopped off at Willingdene as planned—to meet Gordon Godley—the healer.
    I quite liked him—nutty as a fruitcake—but sort of nice with it.
    Hard to say how
    old—45?
    55?—not helped by a mad black beard
    threaded with silver—like a bramble bush on an autumn morning—but v young v gentle gray eyes—a nose like a flying buttress in a dolls cathedral & a lovely smile. I could see the unclaimed trea sures of the area queuing up to have his hands laid on their aching joints.
    Dont think he took to me though. Tom didnt help—introducing me with a version of my thesis proposal that made me sound like the witch-finder general—out on the rampage! Mr Godley wouldnt meet my eye—answered my questions with monosyllabic grunts—so I soon gave up.
    However—he listened to Toms pitch with great courtesy—tho I got the 3 0
    R E G I N A L D H I L L
    impression—using my fi nely honed analytical powers—that in fact he already