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The insulation of his flesh and the car heater combined didn’t make any difference; the metal plates and pins that held him together now reacted directly to the elements, so that on a dank evening like this, he knew the true meaning of being chilled to the bone.
    He got stiffly out of his seat, leaning for a moment against the car roof as he took in his surroundings. The smell of the river filled his nostrils. Traffic streamed past the dockside and over the bridge opposite the hotel, the dark bulk of container ships lined the sides of the quay. To his right rose the clock tower he had seen from five miles away, from the front of the gothic town hall.
    The hotel had a black-and-white mock Tudor façade and red-tiled roof. Sean locked the car, gathered up his bags and went up the steps to check in. The front door opened into a red-carpeted corridor with a lounge bar to the left and the frosted door of the dining room on the right. The smell of meat and gravy hung more heavily on the air than the piped muzak coming from the bar.
    Sean glanced in, saw a copper range over a gas-powered log fire, horse-brasses dripping from the beams around it and pots of aspidistras each side of the hearth. A sparse collection of middle-aged drinkers sat nursing half-pints over the crossword pages of newspapers with all the seriousness of those who had nothing more to fill their days with. One stout woman with a wiry, salt-and-pepper bob and a tweedy coat, looked up and gave him a lingering assessment.
    “Reception’s that way,” she said in a loud, plummy voice, pointing down the hallway and causing a few of her companions to raise their grizzled heads.
    “Thanks,” said Sean, feeling strangely embarrassed as he moved along the red carpet.
    The receptionist greeted him with a cheery hello, in a voice that twanged hay bales and tractors. A nose with a diamante stud in it and hair streaked black, white and red, she wore a smart black skirt suit and crisp white blouse. A badge with the hotel’s logo of an old fishing boat was pinned to her lapel, above an enamel plate that told him her name was
Julie Boone, Hotel Manager
.
    She didn’t look much older than twenty. Funny how the fashions that had seemed so threatening when she was a baby were now so commonplace as to not even elicit comment. Unless Julie was part of a satanic cult too.
    “Thank you, sir,” she took his form and credit card. “Oh, I see you’re up from London, Mr Ward. Can I ask how you found out about us? We like to know how word get about.”
    “You came recommended,” said Sean, “from the Ernemouth tourist board.”
    Julie looked delighted. “We’ve put you in room 4, that’s on the second floor with a nice view over the harbour for you.Lift’s just to the right here,” she waved her hand and then caught herself, “or do you want a hand with your bags?”
    All he had was a hold-all, a briefcase and his laptop, but of course, she would have noticed his slow-shuffling gait as he approached the desk. Again, he felt a twinge of embarrassment, the way that his body had changed so that he no longer passed as normal.
    “No,” he told her, “I’m fine.”
    The room looked like it had been freshly plastered, repainted in the obligatory magnolia and then decorated by someone determined to make up for all that lack of colour. Sean took in the bright counterpane and curtains, all geometric turquoise, coral and yellow. A brief flash of memory: his mother doing the house up with fabrics like this when he was a child, a big squashy sofa with buttons on it. He moved towards the window, dropping his cases beside the bed. Julie was right, the view was pretty, the harbour and bridge lit up with mock gas-lamps, the pilot lights of the ships reflected in glittering streaks on the dark water of the Erne.
    The bathroom was more to his liking: a large tub with a chrome power shower. He peeled off his clothes and stepped under the water, turning up the heat. Rivulets ran across a