'Will you say anything to your dad?'

In her mind's eye, Iris tried to construct a scene in which she and her father had a discussion about the presence of Mrs McHugh in his bedroom. 'So, Dad, are you going to see her again or was that just a one-off?' she'd ask casually, as she dried the dishes. Or 'So, Dad, s.e.x outside marriage have you revised your position?' as she emptied the contents of the pedal bin into the black plastic bag he was holding. Or on the phone: 'Sorry I can't come over on Thursday, it's parents' evening at the sixth form college. Incidentally, who made the first move, Dad? Did she pinch your bottom or did you ping her suspenders when she was helping you empty the boxroom?'

Fran was still waiting for her answer.

'No,' said Iris.

9.

The gla.s.s bottom of the snail tank was no longer visible; there were now so many occupants that their sh.e.l.ls formed a seamless cobblestone surface. Spencer nerved himself and dropped in a lettuce. For a few seconds it lay motionless; then with a gentle quivering it started to rotate slowly on the spot, dwindling horribly with every turn, and the air filled with the whispering champ of a hundred and thirty-seven sets of toothless gums. In less than a minute the last green shreds were just visible, drooping from the mouths of the slowest eaters, and all over the tank antennae waved in a desperate signal for more food.

Spencer retreated, fighting back nausea. The situation was out of control. Yesterday he'd emptied the lettuce section of his local supermarket in order to feed them; by next week he'd need to corner the European market.

The phone rang and he grabbed it.

'Fran?'

'Lo.' Her voice was flat and rough.

'Are you OK?'

'Hungover. Peter just woke me up.' She cleared her throat painfully. 'So what's the problem?'

'Fran, I've got to do something about these snails. You've got to help me.'

There was a long pause. 'Snails?'

'You know, the African land snails. I used to have five and now I've got a million.'

'Spence, it's 9 a.m. on a Sat.u.r.day.'

'And it's my only day off this week, I've got to do something about it today.'

'G.o.d, Spence, I thought you'd killed them weeks ago.'

'No. I know I should have but I didn't.' He heard a sigh. 'I'm desperate, Fran. You should see them it's like something out of Dr Who.'

She cleared her throat again and said, 'Hang on,' and he heard the clunk of the phone being put on the table. He perched on the edge of the sofa and looked across at the tank. The gla.s.s walls appeared marbled from this distance; it was only when you were up close that the pattern resolved itself into a mosaic of flattened grey undersides and their personal trails of slime.

'Right.' Her voice was clearer, and possessed a crisp edge, just this side of crossness. He knew she had a mug of tea in her hand.

'Good party was it?' he asked.

'No,' she said. 'That's why I got drunk. So, snails.'

'I phoned my pet-shop man during the week but he says he doesn't like snails, never stocks them. I phoned the zoo, but they weren't interested. In fact they suggested they were probably an illegal import in the first place. Then I phoned Reptile '

'Spence,' she said levelly.

'What?'

'They've got to die. There is no way out.'

'Well I was thinking, what if I released them on some wasteground somewhere, wouldn't they end up '

'No, Spence. G.o.d almighty, talk about affecting the ecosystem! It's the Himalayan Balsam all over again, only mobile this time in six weeks there'd be more snails than people, they'd be standing for mayor.'

'So they've got to die.'

'Yup.'

'They've got to pay for their crime of being born snails.'

'Spence, it's not as if Mark was fond of them. They didn't even have names.'

'That doesn't mean he didn't like them,' said Spencer, defensively. Though he couldn't actually remember Mark saying anything at all about them, favourable or otherwise.

'Oh, please, Spence,' she said fervently, 'let's not have an argument about f.u.c.king gastropods at the crack of dawn on the day I've got to carry a double bed up three flights of stairs.'

'What?'

'Look, I've got to get a top-up.' She disappeared again. While he waited, Spencer looked behind the magazine rack to check on Bill. He'd tried offering him a snail as a little snack, but Bill was sticking firmly to his diet of magazines. The tattered remnants of Hung and Heavy had been consigned to the bin a couple of weeks ago, but Bill had moved smoothly on to The Lancet with barely a change in jaw rhythm. He was there now, tackling the editorial section.

'I'm back. Feeling better by the minute.' There was a loud crunching noise. 'Toasht,' she explained, her mouth full.

'What's this about a double bed?'

'Sylvie's been kicked out of her flat, Peter's found her another one in Wood Green and I've agreed to help her move.'

'That's very kind of you.'

'Three-line whip. She can't lift things.'

'Why not?'

'Because ' Fran brought her mouth close to the phone ' because she's a bit fragile,' she hissed. 'She's in the house. That's why I'm whispering.'

'Not everybody can carry six sacks of manure with one hand, you know. Your standards are unrealistically high.'

'No, really. She has to protect her wrists.'

'What do you mean?'

'She's got delicate wrists and she says that if she yeah, the snails, anyway, we ought to talk about the snails.'

'Just come in?'

'Yup.'

Spencer grinned. 'Tell me some more about her delicate wrists.'

'No.'

'Oh go on.'

'No. Snails. Easiest, quickest way to kill them is by squashing them.'

'What, a hundred and fifty of them?'

'You could put them in a bin liner and use a mallet.'

'That is such a disgusting image that I can't even think about it.'

'OK, then your best bet's water boiling for a quick death, warm with lots of detergent for a slower one. Of course, you could get some slug killer from the shops, but the effect's much the same.'

Spencer was silent for a moment. He'd actually tried the boiling-water technique on a slug that he'd found outside the flats. The result had been truly horrible, the creature letting out a sort of fizzing scream before dying frothily.

'Tell you what, Spence, I'll come round during the week and do it myself.'

He was touched. 'Thanks, Fran. Why don't I give it a try and let you know the result.'

'All right. Well don't feel under pressure. Oh thanks, Sylvie.'

'What's she done?'

'Made me some fresh tea.'

'So strong enough to lift a teapot then?' He heard a door close at the other end.

'It's not a very big one,' whispered Fran.

'So what was this terrible party you went to?'

She groaned at the memory. 'Claud's fortieth. We went to one of those Greek places where you smash plates on your head.'

'Retsina?'

'Don't even mention the word.'

'So why was it bad?'

'Because ' he could sense her framing the sentence ' well firstly because Claud made a speech in which he thanked everyone he'd ever met in his whole life and people were practically slitting their wrists by the end of it, and secondly because Barry cornered me by the bogs and said that he worshipped me and that he'd split up with his girlfriend because he couldn't get me out of his mind.'

'I told you.'

'I know you did.' They'd had a long conversation about Barry a couple of weeks before, during which Spencer had unswervingly diagnosed lovesickness.

'Cla.s.sic psychology you abused him and then you were kind to him. Now he'll never leave your side.'

'Fantastic. Two blokes I can't get rid of.'

'A poet and an apprentice.'

'A sad old hippy and a complete dips.h.i.t.'

'How is the sad old hippy?'

'Seems to have got stuck in north Germany. He keeps sending me photos of factory chimneys.'

'It's a cla.s.sic eternal triangle, Fran. They'll make a film out of it.'

'There's no one in Hollywood short enough to play me.'

'Danny de Vito?'

'Listen, mate, you've got snails to kill.'

It took him half an hour to transfer them into a bucket. The repulsive sequence of events grip sh.e.l.l, wiggle sh.e.l.l, prod snail's front end to loosen its grip until at last it peels free, trailing a handful of glistening threads quickly became routine, and after a while he put on a tape to relieve the monotony. It was one of Mark's, a home-made compilation he'd designed specifically to get himself into the mood for going out. It started with a string of slushy show tunes (having a bath, smoking a joint, ironing a shirt), then moved on to Motown (getting dressed, undressed, ironing a different shirt, putting it on, taking it off, putting the original shirt back on again), and ended with some red-hot soul (c.o.c.kily admiring himself in front of the mirror, knocking back a shot of tequila, hitting town). Spencer had played it so many times since Mark died that it no longer made him cry and in fact he was feeling quite mellow by the time Gladys was taking the Midnight Train and the last snail had relinquished its hold on the gla.s.s. He plopped it into the bucket and turned his back on the mucoid disaster of the tank, and it was as he was crossing the living room towards the doom of the kitchen tap that the front door buzzed. He pressed the intercom b.u.t.ton.

'h.e.l.lo?'

'h.e.l.loo! Spence-a!' The small, piercing voice was like a knitting needle in the ear.

'Nina?' he said stupidly, wondering not so much what she was doing here, as how she could possibly have reached the buzzer.

'Hi, Spencer. Sorry we're late, really sorry, we had to go back for a teddy.' It was Nick's voice that jerked him back to reality, instantly filling in the blank diary page at which he had gazed uneasily this morning, sure there was something he'd forgotten.

'You hadn't forgotten, had you? You're looking a bit dazed.'

'I remember writing it down somewhere but...' No doubt it was on one of the sc.r.a.ps of paper invitations, appointments, reminders that littered the top of the phone table and the floor beneath and which he daily intended to organize.

'Had you arranged to do something else?' Nick held Nina in mid-air, like a parcel that had yet to be signed for.

'No, it's fine.' He held out his arms and accepted a bag of toys and the chunky figure of his G.o.d-daughter, before Nick disappeared back to the car for more supplies.

'h.e.l.lo mush.'

She wriggled round in his arms so that she could look directly at him. She had a round face, and marmite-coloured eyes behind pink-rimmed spectacles.

'I'm Nina,' she said, a little indignantly.