'And now,' I press him, 'how did you know me?'

'By description,' is the reply. So like a lawyer to fail to answer a simple question. Why, he is so dishonest I could almost embrace him as a brother.

'Whose description?' I can feel my temper building as I realise that I am not going to get a straight answer.

'We have common friends.' Another evasion.

'Common friends?' I echo, a little hoarsely. 'Who are they?'

'Jekyll, for instance,' says the lawyer, and I can feel the very man inside me quail at this blatant lie.

Finally, I have to let my anger out. 'He never told you,' I shout in his face, watching him recoil as my spittle lands on his cheeks. 'I did not think you would have lied.'

'Come,' he continues, not realising how close to the wind he is sailing, 'that is not fitting language.'

My inclination is to swing at him. Fitting language? At least I use it to say what I mean rather than to confuse and avoid. I could show him something far more fitting with my fists, but the other prevents me. So, instead, I throw a laugh at his face and wheel to the door, slipping first the key into the lock and then me through the doorway. I slam it in his face and lean back against the wood, feeling my pulse pound in my temples. Even now, it is tempting to reopen the door and leap on him, but instead, I make my way to where the bottle and glass wait for me. The first draught has no effect, so I take a second.

And then sleep.