My strange awakening in 1973 was becoming more than a nightmare scenario. I knew nothing but who would believe me? John Smith, for whatever his reason, failed to offer me a lift. He was keeping an eye on me, but not going to be my “bloody chauffeur” as I was informed. How could I find out what I’d been doing in the last two years and put it all together in time to save my sorry skin from these dangerous people? I learnt little or next to nothing from my visit to Harry the Pocket’s house. I’d learned I was a sex-crazed lunatic who was having too much of a good time with a violent gangster’s wife! Sorry, he’s a “businessman”. What didn’t I know? Too much, that’s what I didn’t know! Why do they call Harry, Harry the pocket? Worst of all, what in God’s name had I done with the stuff, whatever it looked like? And the final question in a long list of unknowns I was asking myself was where in hell’s name is my other house? I had no choice but to visit my sister Jane once again to find out if she had any clues about this other house.
