Lou looked around to catch somebody’s eye. He was fussy at first about his chosen confidant, preferring somebody good-looking with whom to share his story for the second time, but then he decided to settle on anybody. Surely somebody would care about the miracle that had occurred to him tonight.

The only eye he succeeded in meeting was that of the barman again.

“Gimme me nuther one,” Lou slurred when the barman walked over. “A neat Jack on th’ rocks.”

“I just gave you another one,” the barman responded, a little amused this time, “and you haven’t even touched that.”

“So?” Lou closed one eye to focus on him.

“So, what good is there in having two at the same time?”

At that, Lou started laughing, a chesty, wheezy laugh with the presence of the bitter December breeze.

“I think I missed the joke.” The barman smiled.

“Ah, nobody here cares.” Lou got angry again, waving his hand dismissively at the crowd around him. “All they care about is Sex on the Beach, thirty-year mortgages and Saint-Tropez. I’ve been listenin’ and that’s all they’re sayin’.”

The barman laughed. “Just keep your voice down. What don’t they care about?”

Lou turned quiet now and fixed the barman with his best serious stare. “Cloning.”

The barman’s face changed, interest lighting up his eyes. Finally something different for him to hear about, rather than the usual patron woes. “Cloning? Right. You have an interest in that, do you?”

“An interest? I have more than an interest.” Lou laughed patronizingly and then winked at the barman. He took another sip of his whiskey and prepared to tell the story. “This may be hard for you to believe, but I”—he took a deep breath—“have been cloned. This guy gave me pills, and I took them,” he said, then hiccuped. “You probably don’t believe me, but it happened. Saw it with my own two eyes.” He pointed at his eye, misjudged his proximity, and poked himself. Moments later, after the sting was gone, he continued chatting. “There’s two of me,” he said, holding up three fingers, then one, then finally two.

“Is that so?” the barman asked, picking up a pint glass and beginning to pour a Guinness. “Where’s the other one of you? I bet he’s as sober as a judge.”

Lou laughed, wheezy again. “He’s at home with my wife.” He chuckled. “And with my kids. And I’m here, with her.” He directed his thumb to the left of him.

“Who?”

Lou looked to the side and almost toppled off his bar stool in the process. “Oh, she’s—where is she?” He turned around to the barman again. “Maybe she’s in the toilet. She’s gorgeous, we were having a good chat. She’s a journalist, she’s going to write about this. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m here having all the fun, and he’s”—he laughed again—“he’s at home with my wife and kids. And tomorrow, when I wake up, I’m going to take a pill—not drugs; they’re herbal, for my headache.” He pointed to his head seriously. “And I’m going to stay in bed and he can go to work. Ha! All the things that I get to do, like…” He thought hard but failed to come up with anything. “Like, oh, so, so many things. All the places I’m going to go. It’s a fucking mir’cle. D’ya know when I last had a day off?”

“When was that?”

Lou thought hard. “Last Christmas. No phone calls, no computer. Last Christmas.”

The barman was dubious. “You didn’t take a holiday this year?”

“Took a week. With the kids.” He wrinkled up his nose. “Fucking sand everywhere. On my laptop, in my phone. And this.” He reached into his pocket and took out his BlackBerry and slammed it on the bar counter.

“Careful.”

“This thing. Follows me everywhere; sand in it and it still works. The drug of the nation. This thing.” He poked it, mistakenly pressing some buttons, which lit up the screen. A picture of Ruth and the kids smiled back at him. Bud with his big silly toothless grin; Lucy’s big brown eyes peeping out from under her fringe; Ruth holding them both. Holding them all together. He studied it momentarily with a smile on his face. Then the light went out and the picture faded to black. “In the B’hamas,” he continued, “and beep-beep, they got me. Beep-beep, beep-beep, they get me.” He laughed again. “And the red light. I see it in my sleep, in the shower, every time I close my eyes, the red light and the beep-beep. I hate the fucking beep-beep.”

“So take a day off,” the barman said.

“Can’t. Too much to do.”

“Well, now that you’re cloned, you can take all the days off that you want,” the barman joked.

“Yeah.” Lou smiled dreamily. “There’s so much I want to do.”

“Like what?” The barman leaned in, looking forward to hearing this crazy guy’s dream.

“The blonde that was here a minute ago,” Lou said, then laughed loudly as the barman shook his head and wandered off to another drunk at the end of the bar.

“IT’S OKAY, SWEETIE, IT’S OKAY, Daddy’s here,” Lou said, holding Lucy’s hair from her face and rubbing her back as she leaned over the toilet and vomited for the twentieth time that night. He sat on the bathroom tiles in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, and leaned against the bathtub as her tiny body convulsed one more time and expelled more vomit.

“Daddy…” Her voice was small through her tears.

“It’s okay, sweetie, I’m here,” he repeated sleepily. “It’s almost over.” It had to be. How much more could her tiny body get rid of?

Every twenty minutes he’d gone from sleeping in Lucy’s bed to assisting her in the bathroom, her body going from freezing to boiling and back again in a matter of minutes. Usually it was Ruth’s duty to stay up all night with the children, sick or otherwise, but unfortunately for Lou, and for Ruth, she was having the same experience as Lucy in their own bathroom down the hall. Gastroenteritis, an end-of-the-year gift for those whose systems were ready to wave good-bye to the year.

Lou carried Lucy to her bed again, her small hands clinging around his neck. Already she was asleep, exhausted by what the night had brought her. As he laid her down on the bed, he wrapped her now-cold body in blankets and tucked Beyoncé, her favorite bear, close to her face, as Ruth had shown him. His mobile vibrated again on the pink princess bedside table. At four a.m., it was the fifth time he’d received a phone call from himself. Glancing at the caller display, his own number flashed up on the screen.

“What now?” he whispered into the phone, trying to keep his voice and anger low.

“Lou! It’s me, Lou!” came the drunken voice on the other end, followed by a raucous laugh.

“Stop calling me,” he said, a little louder now.

In the background was thumping music, loud voices, and a gabble of nonspecific words. He could hear glasses clinking and laughter exploding every few moments from different corners of the room. He could almost smell the alcohol fumes drifting through the phone and penetrating the innocent world of his daughter. Subconsciously, he blocked the receiver with his hand.

“Where are you?”

“Leeson Street. Somewhere,” he shouted back. “I met this girl, Lou. Fucking amazing! You’ll be proud of me. No, you’ll be proud of you!” Raucous laughter again.

“What?!” Lou barked loudly. “No! Don’t do anything!” he shouted, and Lucy’s eyes fluttered open momentarily like two little butterflies, big brown eyes glancing at him with fright, but then on seeing him—her daddy—she smiled and her eyes closed again with exhaustion. That look of trust, the faith she had put in him with that one simple look, did something to him right then. He knew he was her protector, the one who could take away the fright and put a smile on her face, and it gave him a better feeling than he’d ever felt in his life. Better than the deal at tonight’s dinner, better than seeing the look on Alfred’s face when he’d arrived at the restaurant. It made him loathe the man at the end of the phone, loathe him so much that he felt like knocking him out. His daughter was at home, throwing her guts up, so much so that her entire body was too exhausted for her to keep her eyes open, and there he was, out getting drunk, chasing skirts, expecting Ruth to do all this without him. He hated the man at the end of the phone.