I still don’t feel I can transition to a different reality altogether and so escape completely – at least not without an incentive so immediate and powerful that I’d rather not subject myself to the experience in the first place – but if this new ability is the trade-off, I’ll happily accept it.

In other words I still need septus, unless I’m feeling feeling very brave or especially desperate, but that shouldn’t be a problem here; these guys ought to be loaded with it. I’d rather have the stuff in the box which Adrian is bringing from London, because it’s Mrs Mulverhill’s finest, untainted with the contaminants that make it easy to trace the flitter, but I’ll take these guys’ supply just in case.

Two of the people searching the upper floors realise they’ve always loved each other and have wasted far too much time already; they fall to fucking on a hallway floor. Another stares fascinated at his own reflection in a bathroom mirror, like he’s never seen himself before. Another loses herself in the depths of a – to be fair – fabulously patterned Persian rug – a Kashan, I’d guess – while another decides to take off all his clothes and dive into the Grand Canal from the roof. The guy at the controls of the launch on the canal sees this, decides he’s in love with the world and vows never to use an internal combustion engine ever again. He takes the keys out of the ignition and drops them into the milky-green waves with a wistful smile. The other guy in the launch just falls into a deep and peaceful sleep. One of the people guarding the calles is absolutely convinced he’s just seen his years-dead father walk past and takes off after him. The rest are still covered by the second blocker, but by the time Jildeep’s even half worked out what’s going on I’ve arrived at the entrance hall and Tasered him as well. Dr Jildeep escapes, skittering down a narrow service corridor – it was him or the blocker with the Taser – but that’s okay.

I’m in Jildeep’s mind now and discovering something galling (I mean apart from the fact he wanted to shoot me in the legs just there, even though his orders forbade this). None of these people have any septus on them. They’re in here clean, just in case I do overpower one of them and take their supply from them and disappear. They were thinking about a conventional physical whack over the back of the head rather than my rather more subtle consciousness manipulation, but the same precautionary principle defeats either, which is irritating.

They’ll be approached by somebody unknown to them after the operation’s over and get their supplies that way. Ha! These poor fuckers are here on faith and are going to have to stand around waiting for the Man. That’s too bad for them and, as it turns out, for me. So I still need to rendezvous with my Londoner mate Ade after all. This cuts back my options significantly, but even a fairly deep rummage through Dr Jildeep’s mind finds nothing that can help the situation. I suppose I could stay inside one of their minds for longer than I was intending to, but long before their supplier arrives they’ll have the blockers up and functioning again, or – if I disable these two blockers permanently – they’ll bring in new ones and I’ll be trapped at best. More likely by far a good blocker will spot the wrong ’un in their midst like a badly bruised thumb and I’ll be caught.

Whatever; with the second blocker down nobody has the power to stop me and there’s no point interfering with anybody else. I’m free to go.

A man – an unremarkable man, about thirty, black hair, medium build – sitting at the stern of a passing vaporetto bound for Santa Lucia sees a naked man run along the dark roof of an impressive white and black palazzo on the western side of the Canalasso. Along with the rest of the passengers – now turning to each other, muttering, saying things like “Oh, my goodness” and “Eh? Cosa?” and so on – he turns to watch as the man throws himself from the roof and hurtles into the water just in front of a water taxi, which swerves and goes astern to rescue him, even though he does seem rather intent on swimming down the canal towards San Marco. Nearby, a man in an idling launch turns off the engine and casually drops the keys overboard.

The unremarkable man at the stern of the passing vaporetto looks surprised for a few moments, then sneezes.

(Italian, English, Greek, Turkish, Russian, Mandarin.)

Mavis Bocklite, a genial pensioner from Baxley, Georgia, USA, who is sitting across from him, says, “Bless you, sir.”

Finally! I smile and nod. “Grazie, signora.”

I think I am well,” I tell the broad doctor who had the dolls in her desk. I know her name now. She is called Dr Valspitter. “I think I am okay now to leave.” My grasp of the local language has improved markedly. It is called Itic. Dr Valspitter looks at me, lips pursed, brows gathered in the middle as though by a pulled thread. “I appreciate everything all here have done for me,” I tell her.

“What do you remember of your past life?” the doctor asks me.

“Not very much,” I confess.

“What would you do if you returned to the outside world?”

“I would look for a place to stay and for work to do. I am able to work.”

“Not at your old job, perhaps.”

“Ordinary labourer. I could do ordinary labour. I know building sites. That I could do. Ordinary labouring.”

“You feel you could do this?”

“Yes, I feel I could do this.”

“How would you find a place to live?”

“I would go to the Municipal Available Local Lodgings Clearing Office.”

Dr Valspitter looks approving, nods and makes a note. “Good. And how would you find work?”

The obvious next question. “I would approach building site managers, but also I would go to the Municipal Local Employment Exchange.”

The doctor makes another note. I think I’m doing all right here. I need to. I have to get out. I have to get away.

Last night I found I could not sleep and took another small-hours wander along the corridor, down the stairwell and along to what I still thought of as the silent ward. I could not help it; I felt drawn there. I don’t think that’s what woke me up but once I was awake I found myself thinking obsessively about the rows of still beds with their vacant-eyed, near-silent patients, and the contrast with their appearance in daylight when they were awake. I couldn’t think what good padding down to look at them would do, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do either and maybe just seeing them for real rather than in my mind’s eye would let me get back to sleep eventually.

So I went, I looked – they were all just the same, though there were cards and personal items on the bedside cabinets and a few chairs scattered throughout the ward, all the things I’d convinced myself hadn’t been present on my first two visits but which I suppose were always there – then I came back again.

There was somebody in my room. I had left the door closed and my light off, but now I could see some light showing beneath the door, reflecting dimly off the shiny floor. At first, of course, I thought it would just be the duty nurse again.

Then I saw more movement, at the far end of the corridor, somewhere inside the day room. A pale figure, moving across the dark space, disappearing then reappearing and coming towards the low lights of the corridor. The figure in the day room emerged into the half-light of the night-dimmed corridor lights and was revealed as the duty nurse, walking back to his desk at the end of the corridor holding a magazine and flicking its pages, intent on it. He did not look up, so did not see me.

I felt a sudden terror and shrank back against the wall as far as I could, hiding behind a metal cupboard holding fire-fighting equipment. The duty nurse sat down at his station at the far end of the corridor, feet up on the desk, still flicking through the magazine. He stretched out to one side – I could hear the wheels of his chair squeaking – and turned on the radio at a low volume. Tinny pop music sounded.