In his dreams, unseen things came and went, half-formed notions, flitting suspicions. Even in broad daylight, he experienced paranoia. With every corner he walked round, each car journey he took across London, he fully expected a barrage of reporters to leap out of a shop doorway or cab window. Sometimes the journalists and photographers were laughably visible. Those were the ones he didn't worry about. No. It was the feeling that other eyes were watching him, eyes in a head and on a body he could not see, didn't want to see, in fact. But that person, he persuaded himself, wanted to see him. He phoned Abby and told her of his fears. 'Are you sure you're not being paranoid?' 'If I am, you can get me committed.' 'Oh, I don't think I need do that. Your madness is self-inflicted for the most part, and none of your sins are illegal between consenting heterosexual adults, even bondage, even games. I don't think you're really paranoid. Crazy maybe, but then, so am I. Crazy for you, my darling, my love.' He laughed.
