"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" says Charlie Citrine. He looks up. The sky is not bird-loud. Not pork-pink. Not dolphin-grey. There is no sky. His head is wet. He reaches up. Touches his soaking hair. Viscid. That is the word. Wherever he is is dark. Warm. Redolent with exhausted energy. Like a shopping centre at night. He leans against a wall. Spongy and slightly damp. He feels for a switch. A cord. A lamp to light. Nothing. Just these strange cables protruding from the pitted softness. Like strands of liquorice. Lickerish. "Hmm," says Charlie. "Hmmm."

She arrives at eight o'clock precisely, only to be told that her table is not quite ready and that her guest, Dexter Green, has retired to the bar. Fuming inwardly, Catherine Barkley waves a vague hand of dismissal toward the maitre d' and, as all eyes turn to follow her, strides into the bar area just in time to see Dexter finish what appears to be his third martini. "Cat, you look marvellous. Drink?" says Dexter, turning to the barman and holding up two fingers. "Thanks. And thanks," says Catherine. "Vodka tonic." She is about to say more when she feels a sudden itching sensation.

Blinking. Sweating. Panting. All three. At once. Skin the texture of chewed greens. Stewed prunes. Darker still. Air squeezed. Nostrils flared. Balls of fibrous matter the size of gala melons. Slippery path. His step hazardous. He takes off his shoes to gain purchase. Like walking on a bed of nails. He bends down and touches. Saw grass. Barbed wire. Lion's tongue. He lifts his hand to his nose and sniffs. Eucalyptus. Rose petals. He claps his hands and a puff of powder envelopes him. He sneezes. Coughs. Rubs his eyes.

"Are you angry with me?" asks Dexter, as he topples his pyramid of foie gras, Parma ham, carrot and sultana pickle. "Why should I be?" asks Catherine. "Oh, I don't know. Something to do with the fact that you've hardly said two words since we sat down." "I'm fine," she says. "Fine." She hates the way Dexter eats. He swallows every mouthful without chewing and an absurd smirk slowly emerges on his pale, fleshy face. "How's yours?" asks Dexter. Catherine builds small castles fortified with moats out of the marinated and seared loin of tuna with pickled white radish, never once lifting a piece to her lips. "Excuse me for a minute," says Catherine. "I need the bathroom."

"It's like being on Venus," thinks Charlie. "Like a story in that film, The Illustrated Man." Moisture seeping into his skin. His blood feeling diluted yet heavier than usual. Like a jungle. Vegetal perfume. Fetid growth. Palpitations. Of his flesh. Of the world around him. "Oh, for a machete," Charlie says aloud. His voice reverberating in the claustrophobic air, the sound coming back to him like blowing raspberries on a big red balloon. He strips off his trousers. His shirt. His underpants. His whole body alive with liquid. No thistle-blue sky. Air the colour of old pennies. Just the long reins to hold him steady. Just the long liquorice reins. The liquorice rain.

"You okay?" asks Dexter for the hundredth time. "Why do you keep asking?" asks Catherine. "Nothing. About the other night." "What about it?" asks Catherine. "I can explain." "No need." "Want any more of that?" asks Dexter, spearing a chunk of baked baby sea bass with his fork. "Help yourself," says Catherine. The table jerks up as if it were a prop in some violent Victorian séance. Cutlery clangs. Food spills. Wine glasses roll drunkenly. "What's the matter?" asks Dexter. "Shit!" says Catherine. "Ow!" as her knee smashes involuntarily into the table divider. "What's wrong with you?" asks Dexter, a small congregation of aubergine caviar affixed to his bottom lip. "It's embarrassing," says Catherine, looking down into her lap, opening her legs, hoping to catch a soothing breeze.

Charlie is sure he has a box of matches. But where are his trousers? He kicks out at what looks like a fur ball and watches it trundle sodden into a patch of undergrowth. "No way out," thinks Charlie. "No exit signs. No bloody entrance signs." The place seems to move of its own accord. Sometimes, the going is steep and tiring. Other times, it levels out and he believes, albeit mistakenly, that he is making progress. Then steep again. He sees what looks like a path to his right and heads that way. The long liquorish vines are thickest to his left but as the hill sweeps alongside him, it becomes denuded of vegetation. Hope. Maybe. Just maybe.

"What exactly are you saying?" asks Dexter. "I was fine until you came back from Brazil." "And?" asks Dexter. "And," says Catherine, "ever since you got back and after the first night when we ... well ... when you tried ... I've ..." Catherine leans forward, her dress brushing the roasted fennel drizzled with extra virgin olive oil. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she hisses, "I've had, well, you know," she says, gesturing with her head down beneath the table, "a thing." "What thing?" asks Dexter. "And what's it got to do with Brazil?" Catherine cups her hands around her mouth as if she is about to bellow but instead mouths, itching, and then, burning, and then, down there. "It's got nothing to do with me," says Dexter. "Maybe it's the washing powder. Maybe you're allergic to something. Maybe it's the new underwear I bought you." "I'm not wearing any," says Catherine.

There is definitely a light. Definitely. The hills divide and a gap runs between them. No valley, as far as Charlie can see. But the air is fresher. The vegetation has disappeared. The hills are smooth and he can see above him a sky of shimmering white. "Clouds," thinks Charlie. "Clouds that look like lace, like silk." He runs. The ground hard, almost muscular beneath his feet. There is no stopping him. He has found the way out. And then there is nothing. Just air. And he is falling. Falling.

"Are you accusing me of sleeping with someone else?" asks Dexter. "With a whore?" His breath smells of orange, Earl Grey tea, pink grapefruit. "Hold on," says Catherine. "Hold on." She reaches down beneath the tablecloth, looking around to see if anyone is watching. She bites her lower lip. She looks up at the painted ceiling. Angels and cherubim look down. "What are you doing?" asks Dexter, wiping coriander ice cream from his chin. "It's stopped," says Catherine. "It's just stopped." "No itching. No burning." "Good," says Dexter. "You finished with that pineapple?"

Charlie Citrine is in freefall. The clouds whip around him like sheets on a washing line. Huge trees, their trunks bare, or covered in a filmy moss, or dark and striped, some with large unsightly burls, sway in the wind. "This is it," thinks Charlie. "This is where it all ends." He reaches out, attempting to grab something. He looks down and sees the surprisingly smooth floor rush up to meet him. "Beeswax," thinks Charlie. He closes his eyes, and ... His back sinks into something soft, pliant and pungent. Opening his eyes, Charlie sees that he has landed on what look like large creamy cushions flecked with greenish leaves. He is alive.

"Whoops," says Dexter as his right leg slides along the wooden floor, causing a small rupture in his Achilles tendon. "What is it?" asks Catherine. Dexter says, "I think I've stepped on some of that herb risotto you spilled. That and something crunchy."


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