LITMIR.BIZ

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main – of a series of lists. His eye settled, arbitrarily, upon one of them: a treatise (Rouen, 1644) which detailed the eleven main indications of true possession. Next to each item on this list Beede had inserted a series of tiny, red marks. Item One: ‘To think oneself possessed’ carried a minute question mark. Item Two: ‘To lead a wicked life’ had a minuscule cross –

      etc

      

      Point Nine: ‘To be tired of living [s’ennuyer de vivre et se désespérer]’ had been strongly underlined –

       Burning

      Kane sneezed, hard, as he slapped the book shut (a sudden interest in the wonders of Satanism? Well this was definitely a turn up). He blinked, winced, inhaled…

      No. No. Hang on – it was burning. For sure. He quickly glanced behind him –

       Shit!

      A cat! A fucking Siamese cat. Just standing there, its blue eyes boring into him, unblinking, its grey tail twisting up like a plume of smoke. He looked down and saw his Marlboro burning a hole in the rug. The cat lifted its head and then coughed (with just a touch of fastidiousness).

      ‘Fuck!’

      Kane lunged for the cigarette. The cat pranced away. Gaffar jumped up, with a hiss (Gaffar hated cats).

      ‘You bastard!’ Kane yelled, snatching up the still-red-embered stub and observing – much to his horror – the ugly, black hole in Beede’s Moroccan rug.

      ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

      Beede loved his rug. Kane thought of it as Moroccan, but it celebrated – in words and pictures – some kind of crazy, phallic-shaped public monument in Afghanistan, surrounded by tiny planes (which looked like birds) with MINARET OF FIAM written on the periphery, semi-back-to-front. It was a ridiculous object. Kane remembered it – almost fondly – from his boyhood –

      

      No –

       Perhaps that’s a false memory

      Gaffar had already bounded over. He was staring down at the spot in dismay. He seemed to instinctively appreciate that this unsightly burn was a big deal for Kane (and Kane instinctively appreciated his awareness of this fact).

      ‘Smoking could seriously damage your health,’ Gaffar announced portentously, his accent almost cut-glass.

      ‘You’re not wrong there,’ Kane murmured despairingly. ‘Beede loves this stupid rug.’

      ‘He go crazy?’ Gaffar enquired.

      ‘No,’ Kane shook his head. ‘Not crazy. It’ll simply…uh…it’ll confirm something…’ He paused, then gave up. ‘Yeah, absolutely fucking psychotic,’ he muttered.

      ‘Leave,’ Gaffar said. ‘I do. Go!’

      He waved Kane away.

      Kane glanced over at him, almost poignantly. ‘You think you can fix this?’

      Gaffar nodded. ‘Turkish.’ He pointed to himself, as if that was explanation enough.

      ‘Really?’

      Gaffar nodded. ‘My mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother,’ he lied, effortlessly, ‘all sweated blood over the carpet looms of Diyarbakir.’

      ‘So you know about rugs? You think you can sort this out for me?’ Gaffar nodded again. ‘Leave,’ he ordered, ‘I am mend.’

      Kane stood up just in time to observe the troublesome Siamese jumping lightly on to the kitchen counter. He glowered at it. ‘I can’t believe Beede’s got himself a cat,’ he murmured, taking a speculative step towards it, ‘and a fucking pedigree at that. Beede hates domestic animals. Cats especially…’

      He paused. ‘At least…’ He frowned, his voice petering out.

      Gaffar hissed. The cat flattened its ears in response. Gaffar picked up Beede’s Tupperware beaker and lobbed it at the cat. He scored a direct hit. He whooped. The cat kicked off the counter – its hackles up – and dashed, full pelt, into the sanctuary of Beede’s bedroom.

      Kane rapidly shot after it, across the living-room, through the kitchen, but then faltered – like a mime suddenly hitting an invisible wall –

      

       Bang!

      – just on the cusp of entry.

      I mean Beede’s bedroom…? His monkish cloister? His inner sanctum? His lair?

      Beede’s bedroom? Was nothing sacred?

      Kane drew a long, deep breath (steeling his resolve; throwing back his shoulders, sticking up his chin and squinting; like a heroic Sir Edmund Hillary trapped inside a damnable snowstorm), then entered, boldly, on the exhale.

       SIX

      She was lying on a trolley in the hospital corridor, propped up on her elbow and reading an old copy of Marie Claire. She’d already made firm friends with two of the porters, one of whom was still buzzing around in the background; perhaps imagining – even though she was obviously suffering from a serious fracture – that he might be on to a Good Thing here.

      And what more could she expect (the porter’s lascivious expression seemed to proclaim, as he slouched priapically against the Nurses’ Station and hungrily appraised her)? She was a Broad, after all. They were a degenerate bunch. The now-legendary Jason Broad’d had his stomach pumped on the exact same Casualty Ward a mere eighteen months earlier, and had celebrated this momentous occasion with – wait for it – a can of Budweiser (downed it in one, the nutter)! Dr Morton almost had a coronary; was actually quoted as saying that ‘Jason Broad should take out a restraining order on himself’ (and if his current three-year prison sentence was anything to go by, then he’d pretty much followed the doctor’s orders to the letter).

      The whole family were delinquent (it was totally genetic): the dad, a child-fancier, the mother a basket case, the brothers all hoodlums, the sisters, sluts. The uncle was a trickster and the cousins, simpletons (although – so far as anyone knew – there was nothing concrete on the aunt).

      Perhaps sensing herself the focal-point of somebody’s attentions, Kelly suddenly glanced up –

      

      Ah…

       Patrick?

       Is that his name?

      She nodded and smiled politely. He smiled back –

      

       Christ she wants me

      – then turned and muttered something to the nurse on duty. The nurse sniggered, peering over. Kelly’s mouth tightened. She looked down, her cheeks flushing.

      The second (and rather more hands-on) porter had delivered Beede a message just as soon as he’d arrived at work: less a polite invitation to pop up and see Kelly, than a haughty – if carefully phrased – injunction (in the idiom of The Whips, this was definitely a Three Liner).

      Even so, he didn’t head up there immediately. He changed into his spotless white uniform, tinkered away at a faulty dryer, put on four wash-loads in quick succession, then took the service lift from his musty but well-ordered Basement Empire to the exotic, chaotic heights of Casualty (delivering a batch of clean towels to Paediatrics on the way).

      As he strolled along the

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