Burial

'What?'

'Celebrity count?'

'It's early days. It's not even nine.'

She looked at him, trustingly. They pushed and 'excuse-me'd and danced round the loose crowd to get to the drinks table. It was a long trestle, behind which stood six young men in burgundy shirts, pouring drinks.

Nathan surveyed the party, holding a gin and tonic. He barely knew anyone - certainly nobody to whom he felt inclined to introduce Sara. He wondered what on earth they could find to talk about until it was time for her to go home disappointed.

They stared at the party and into their drinks. Nathan tried not to look at the senior managers -- whom he regarded with contempt for their black suits and their big, old-man ears and their stupid fucking cigars.

He made an effort to point out colleagues whose names he might have mentioned in passing, but Sara wasn't really interested; she wanted to see, and be introduced to, celebrities. But no real celebrity had stepped over Mark Derbyshire's threshold since Margaret Thatcher was in power.

Eventually, Howard strolled past. Although to Nathan he was obviously fucked out of his mind, he carried a certain louche charm, with his curly grey-white hair, his unlatched bow-tie. Nathan grabbed his elbow.

'Howard! Mate! Have you met Sara?'

Howard had not met Sara.

Shaking her hand, he glanced at her creamy decolletage with an expression that resembled sorrow. Then he locked eyes with her.

Howard had pale Icelandic eyes and they shone like a missile guidance system.

Nathan said, 'Tell her about some of the people you've worked with.'

'I'm sure she's got better things to do than listen to my war stories.'

'The Rolling Stones,' said Nathan, not without desperation. 'The Beatles. Spandau Ballet.'

'Spandau Ballet!' said Sara.

And that was it. She was happy.

Nathan hung around for a while, but soon it became clear he was no longer required. He wandered off to get another drink, then followed the chlorine tang towards the indoor swimming pool.

The atmosphere round the pool was excitingly muted and full of potential. Nathan leaned against the damp wall and stared through the steamy glass ceiling at the pin-sharp December sky. He recognized none of the constellations and for a moment fantasized that he'd entered a deeply foreign country. He felt good.

In the corner was Mark Derbyshire. He was engaged in restrained conversation with a big, shambling, shaggy-haired man in crumpled dinner jacket and an Hawaiian shirt. The shambling man seemed to be controlling the conversation: Mark Derbyshire looked diminished, clutching his glass of wine in one hairy-backed hand, nodding along, glancing left and right.

Mark spotted Nathan and rolled his eyes with relief, beckoning Nathan over.

'Nathan. You have to meet this guy.'

The shambling man turned. And for the second time in his life, Nathan reached out to shake Bob's hand.

'Mate,' he said, recognizing Nathan. 'Good to see you.'

Mark said, 'You know this guy?'

Nathan said, 'Kind of.'

Bob said, 'From way back. How are you? You're looking a bit more prosperous.'

Nathan looked down at his suit, still unpaid for. 'Well. Y'know.'

He caught Mark Derbyshire's confused, malevolent little eyes.

Bob explained to Mark, 'He was a bit of a hippie when I knew him.'

And Nathan protested: 'I don't know about that'

'Bit of a new age traveller,' said Bob. 'All patchouli and ganja.'

'That's great,' said Mark, who at least knew what ganja was; he'd heard it mentioned in a comedy reggae song. 'It's great that you two know each other. I can make you Bob's liaison, Nathan.'

'Great,' said Nathan, not knowing what Mark was talking about.

'We're going to have Bob on the show,' said Mark.

'As an experiment,' said Bob.

'What he means is, for a trial period. Thursday night, 12.30, for six weeks.'

'It's part of the research,' said Bob. 'I'm compiling stories for a book.'

'Still working on the PhD?'

'Inter alia.'

'Nathan, boy,' said Mark. 'Do us a favour - go and get us a drink.'

It was at once a jovial and venomous reminder of who was boss.

Bob caught Nathan's eye and winced in sympathy. Nathan set down his drink and walked quickly to the trestle table, ordered the drinks, looked for Sara, saw that she was still enchanted by Howard, then went back to the pool. He handed Mark Derbyshire his whisky and Bob his vodka tonic.

They said cheers and clinked glasses. Then a doddering, silver haired guest took Mark's elbow. Unsure whether to address Nathan or Bob, he alternated between them. 'Do you mind if I borrow the host?'

'Not at all,' said Bob, and lifted his vodka tonic in silent salute. The guest led Mark Derbyshire back to the party.

Bob watched him go.

'Christ,' he said.

Nathan smiled, not without guilt.

'I mean really. What a cocksucker.'

Nathan laughed, but he was uncomfortable.

Bob changed the subject. He said, 'So. Do you have any drugs?'

They stopped off at the bar. Sara was still in conversation with Howard, but they'd been joined by a number of other party goers. She looked like she was enjoying herself. Making friends. Wherever she went, she made friends.

Clutching a bottle of gin in one hand and three wine glasses in the other -- one glass full of ice -- Bob sidled alongside Nathan.

'She with you?'

'Yeah. Well, nominally.'

'Lucky man.'

Nathan ignored that -- it hardly mattered to him any more that Sara was good-looking.

And, actually, Nathan got the impression that Bob had disliked Sara on sight. Not many men did that, and Bob kind of went up in his estimation because of it. In some strange way, it made him an ally.

They hurried up the main stairwell. On the first-floor landing, they turned down a half-lit, door-lined hallway.

Nathan said, 'Have you been here before?'

'Nah. I'm following the vibe.'

'Right.'

'I know it sounds like bollocks. But you attend as many hauntings as I do, you learn how to read a house.'

He tried a door handle, moved on. Tested another; the door opened. He groped in the darkness and a light came on. They stepped into the room and Nathan closed the door.

It was a guest bedroom, impersonal as a Holiday Inn. A double bed, a bedside table, a mirrored wardrobe.

Nathan turned on a standard lamp that stood in one corner; it shed a more pleasing glow, so he killed the overhead light.

He said, 'You really believe that stuff?'

'Yep.'

Nathan took from the wall a square mirror, about the size of an LP, and lay it mirror-side up on the quilted bed. Then he kneeled and laid out four lines of cocaine, a cat's claw gash across his reflection.