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Another of Auntie's faults is her indecisiveness. She hummed and hawed for days when I suggested basing myself here (it cost a fortune on my mobile phone bill) and then she refused point-blank. I had to remind her that she used to take in girl students as paying guests. (When I was about eight, I had to sleep downstairs on the settee; they used to keep me awake with their giggling and moaning). She claimed that she'd stopped taking in students when my uncle died but under pressure admitted that a male student had stayed a night recently. I went into attack mode by reminding her that I'm her nearest relative; one day she might need my help. That made her think. So I got the room - although she insisted prudishly that I mustn't invite Karen to stay the weekend. That really annoyed me. I felt like telling her straight out that one day this cottage will be mine. The chintz will go on Day 2 and Karen will bring me my tea - topless, of course - at precisely four o'clock.
What a dreadful thought! Why is it so important to be on time? Why should she be a slave to the clock? Look outside at the foal with her mother, full of trust and love - she has no inkling of time. And look at the snowball bushes; listen to that robin - it doesn't care that it's past four o'clock. Hmmm, the lilacs' scent is so delicious...
For a second time, my thoughts were taken over by an obsession with prettiness. Obviously, the delusion was caused by the pills rather than the infection. I'm probably allergic to one of the ingredients. It must have a psychedelic side-effect which is why I imagined seeing a female hand.
I looked down again - and froze: the hand had reappeared, this time partnered by a left hand. I jerked upright, my heart pounding. The hands were too real.
"I wish you'd keep still and watch the foal," a girl's voice said in my head.
I lay back stiffly, my eyes wide open, my pulse racing and the hair on the nape of my neck tingling.
"Please relax, it's so difficult if you struggle," the voice implored.
The speaker was not in the room. The voice with the West Country accent sounded in my head in the way I might remember a song on the radio - though this voice was unfamiliar.
"Who's there?" I croaked.
"Please relax," the voice repeated.
I shut my eyes tightly and tried to concentrate on something I knew to be real: I recalled the scene in my aunt's studio where I'd fixed the power supply for the potter's wheel. I saw finished pots on the shelf, the kiln, the treadle… Treadle? There is no treadle, the wheel has a three-phase motor…
"You must try to understand," the voice interrupted. "Look at me."
I raised myself and stared at the mirror. For an instant, I saw - not my face topped by wiry ginger curls - but the oval face of a girl with long brown hair. It was only a glimpse but I noticed real sadness in the eyes.
"What's happening?" I gasped.
I had to re-establish normality. To help, I reeled off a few facts as if reading a CV: I'm a chartered engineer, I got a goodish degree from Brunel, two A levels in Maths and one in Physics, I play rugger and ride a trials bike, I never use the word 'pretty'. Karen is a good lay but that's about it; she's thick, she's clumsy and works as a shop assistant; she lives next door to my parents and was my first proper girlfriend.
"I've had others and am looking out for someone more exciting but…"
I caught myself thinking aloud again; my reflection in the mirror was gaping at me. But then the other image - which was not of Karen - reappeared, frowning.
"Oh, God," I groaned.
"Don't call on Him, He'll hear you - and being so disgustingly rude about Karen isn't nice either, even if it does make things easier for me."
"What do you mean - 'easier'?"
"We'll come to that. First, you must admit my existence," she told me.
"I can't, I work with facts not delusion and fantasy."
"Fantasy?" she echoed and started to cry, fading into my own reflection.
I felt real tears roll down my cheeks. I haven't cried since I was twelve - that's for over sixteen years - and then only because my father slapped my head. If this was a symptom of rubella, I thought, I'm glad I'm not at work.
"I need your help desperately, David." she sobbed. "You're the first to sleep in this room for ages - I'd given up hope. Once there were girl students - but not since…"
"My aunt won't allow girls to stay here," I interrupted. "Not since…"