In the days after their first meeting, the image of Nicola Six began to work on Keith's mind. It worked like television. He thought of her often — while inspecting a shop window in Oxford Street, while baring after his scattered urges in the last moments before sleep, while finishing himself off with Trish Shirt. Although many of these thoughts were frankly pornographic (but class porn, you know? Not like the rubbish you get here), by no means all of them were. He saw himself in lace-up swimming-trunks, on a lounger, frowning over a balance-sheet by a personal plunge-pool, and Nicola walking past in bikini and high heels, bringing him a drink and tenderly tousling his hair. 'LA innit,' he whispered. Or Keith in a tuxedo, on a patio, outside Palermo: glass table and candles, and her in a flowing gown. An international entrepreneur with wide business interests. Re­deemed, and freed from sorrow. On the other side. Where darts might yet take him. Where he belonged.