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turned to go, but then he stopped, and turned back, with a very concentrated expression on his face, and said, ‘By the way … the other residents of Trinity that I was talking about … those who have undergone treatment here at the clinic … How shall I put this? Some of them still bear the scars, so to speak … if not physically, then mentally. So if their behavior on occasions is a little
off-key
, I trust that you’ll understand, and respond with sensitivity.’
    â€˜
Off-key
?’ asked Michael.
    â€˜Well … some of them have been through a lot, and it’s taken them months if not
years
of therapy to come to terms with it. We’re always very anxious not to set them back.’
    â€˜OK,’ said Michael. ‘I get it. I’ll be sensitivity incarnate. And don’t worry about me and Isobel Weston. She seems like a real nice person.’
    â€˜One more thing,’ said Kingsley Vane. ‘I gather your sister is coming to see you this afternoon. Do give her my good wishes. And I very much hope that her visit rings a few bells.’
    He left the room, calling out as he did so to an intern who had just passed the doorway, ‘Newton! A word, please!’
    I hope her visit rings a few bells
. For some unaccountable reason that made Michael think of the bells which people who were fearful of being buried alive would have suspended above their graves, with a string that was connected to their casket and knotted around their finger. He knew that was where the term ‘graveyard shift’ had first come from – a verger who would sit up all night in a cemetery, listening for the sound of bells. He also knew that the people who rang those bells were called ‘dead ringers’. Not that any of them ever did.
    Now, what the hell made me think of that?
    They brought him his lunch on a tray – three slices of roast chicken with green beans, sweetcorn, hash browns and gravy. It tasted microwaved. Outside his window, as he ate, a light snow began to fall.
    When he had finished eating, he went into his bathroom to make sure that he looked presentable for his sister’s visit. He stood in front of the mirror and stared at himself. He couldn’t remember what his sister looked like, but the strange thing was that he couldn’t really remember what
he
looked like, either. Was this really him? This pale, skinny young man with tousled brown hair and worried brown eyes and a thin, rather studious-looking face. He thought he looked like a not-very-successful tennis player.
    He put on a fresh green-and-white striped shirt, washed his teeth and brushed his hair. He couldn’t think why, but looking at himself in the mirror made him feel lonely, as if there ought to be somebody standing next to him, smiling.
    Again, he experienced that split-second flash of light and shadow and sound, and this time he thought he heard a girl’s voice say,
you shouldn’t
. He thought he could smell that flowery perfume, too, but that faded so quickly that he couldn’t be sure.
    You shouldn’t
. Shouldn’t
what
?
    He went back into his room and sat in his chair and switched on the TV. He flicked through the channels, but he had a choice only of
Max & Ruby
,
Charmed
,
Squawk on
the Street
or
Plaza Sésamo
, so he switched it off. Outside, the snow was falling thicker and thicker, as if God were in a hurry to bury the world forever.
    He was still staring out of the window, thinking about nothing much, when he became aware of somebody standing in the corridor outside his open door. As soon as he turned around, she stepped inside, smiling. A tall, blonde woman wearing a red beret and a thick red-and-orange duffel-coat, and brown leather boots. She pulled off her beret and shook her curly hair and said, ‘Greg!’
    He started to get up, but she gently pushed him back into his chair and said, ‘No, you don’t have to. I know your knees were all