'No,' she told him. 'Not at all.'

Another of the officers was approaching the car, shouting something over the din of rain and idling engines. The longer I stay here, she thought, the worse this is going to get; and she wrenched the wheel round. The officer at the window yelled for her to stop, but the die was cast. As the car bolted forward she chanced the briefest of glances in Cal's direction. She saw to her distress that he was engaged in trying to wind his way between the cars. Though she shouted his name, he was oblivious to her. She shouted again. Too late, he looked up; the officer in the front was running towards the car. He'd reached it before Cal was half way across the road. She had no choice but to make her escape, while she still had a prayer.

She accelerated, the officer in front of her throwing himself out of her path with inches to spare. There was no time to look back for Cal; she skirted the collision site at speed, hoping he'd used the diversion to pick up his heels and run.

She'd travelled no more than four hundred yards when she heard the sound of sirens rising behind her.

4.

It took Cal half a dozen seconds to work out what had happened, and another two to curse his sloth. There was a moment of confusion, when none of the officers seemed certain whether to wait for instructions or give chase, during which pause Suzanna was away around the corner.

The officer who'd been at the car window instantly made his way in Cal's direction, his pace picking up with every step.

Cal pretended he hadn't seen the man, and began to walk speedily back up towards the monument. There was a shouted summons, and then the sound of pursuit. He ran, not looking behind him. His pursuer was heavily dressed against the rain; Cal was much lighter footed. He made a left into Lower Castle Street, and another onto Brunswick Street, then a right onto Drury Lane. The sirens had begun by now; the bikes were in pursuit of Suzanna.

On Water Street he chanced a backward glance. His pursuer was not in sight. He didn't slow his pace, however, until he'd put half a mile between himself and the police. Then he hailed himself a taxi and headed back to the house, his head full of questions, and of Suzanna's face. She'd come and gone too quickly; already he was mourning her absence.

In order to better hold onto her memory, he fumbled for the names she'd spoken; but damn it, they were gone already.

VII.

LOST CAUSES.

1.

The blinding rain proved to be Suzanna's ally; so, perhaps, did her ignorance of the city. She took every turn she could, only avoiding cul-de-sacs, and the lack of any rationale in her escape route seemed to flummox her pursuers. Her path brought her out into Upper Parliament Street; at which point she put on some speed. The sirens faded behind her. But it would not be for long, she knew. The noose was tightening once more.

There were breaks in the rain-bellied clouds as she drove from the city, and shafts of sun found their way between, leaving a sheen of gold on roof and tarmac. But for moments only. Then the clouds sealed their wound, and the benediction ceased.

She drove and drove, as the afternoon grew late, and once more she was alone.

2.

Cal stood at the kitchen door. Geraldine - who was peeling an onion - looked up and said:

'Did you forget your umbrella?'

And he thought: she doesn't know who I am or what I am, and how could she?, because God in Heaven I don't know either. I forget myself. Oh Jesus, why do I forget myself?

'Are you all right?' she was asking him, putting down the onion and the knife now and crossing the kitchen towards him. 'Look at you. You're soaked.'

'I'm in trouble,' he said flatly.

She stopped in her tracks. 'What, Cal?'

'I think the police may come here looking for me.'

'Why?'

'Don't ask. It's too complicated.'

Her face tightened a little.

'There was a woman on the 'phone this afternoon,' she said, 'asking for your work number. Did she get through to you?'

'Yes.'

'And is she something to do with this?'

'Yes.'

'Tell me, Cal.'

'I don't know where to begin.'

'Are you having a fling with this woman?'

'No,' he said. Then thought: At least not that I remember.

Tell me then.'

'Later. Not now. Later.'

He left the kitchen to the smell of onions.

'Where are you going?' she called after him.

'I'm soaked to the skin.'

'Cal.'

'I have to get changed.'

'How bad is this trouble you're in?'

He stopped half way up the stairs, pulling off his tie.

'I can't remember,' he replied, but a voice at the back of his head - a voice he hadn't heard in a long while - said: Bad son, bad, and he knew it spoke the bitter truth.

She followed him as far as the bottom of the stairs. He went into the bedroom, and peeled off his wet clothes, while she continued to ply him with questions for which he had no replies, and with every unanswered question he could hear her voice get closer to tears. He knew he'd call himself a louse for this tomorrow (what was tomorrow?; another dream), but he had to be away from the house again quickly, in case the police came looking for him. He had nothing to tell them of course - at least he could remember nothing. But they had ways, these people, of making a man speak.

He rummaged through the wardrobe, looking for a shirt, jeans and a coat, not giving a conscious thought to the choice. As he slipped on the thread-bare jacket he glanced out of the window. The street-lights had just come on; the rain was a silver torrent in their glare. A chilly night for a jaunt, but it couldn't be helped. He dug in his work suit for his wallet, which he transferred to his pocket, and that was it.

Geraldine was still at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. She had successfully fought off tears.

'And what am I supposed to tell them,' she demanded, 'if they come looking for you?'