And suddenly Larkin was in the ring, fighting. Just as abruptly the fighting stopped, but the bell kept on ringing; he opened his eyes. He’d expected to be laid out on the canvas, but he wasn’t, he was in a bed. A strange one. He jumped up, immediately regretted it, and flopped back down. Whoever he’d been fighting had won. The bell kept ringing. With shaking, fumbling fingers, he traced the noise to the bedside phone and picked it up. ‘Hello?’ Blearily. ‘Mr Larkin?’ A girl’s voice, squeakily cheerful. Larkin grunted. ‘Call for you! Putting you throu-ough,’ she sang. The line was connected. Then a ghost’s voice: ‘You made an exhibition of yourself last night, didn’t you?’ Charlotte. ‘Great. Just what I need. I feel like shit and now you phone up to make it even worse.’ ‘Don’t swear, Stephen.
