`Billy? Billy? You all right?`

The mention of food had sent Billy into peristalsis.

`Neeaargh!` he expanded, but pulling himself together with an eviscerating drag on his cigarette, he arranged to meet Lastname at an Indian restaurant in Islington.

`See you there,` said Billy.

`Check,` said Justin.

Great! Fame! And Billy had done absolutely nothing to earn it but think about it! And a free lunch to boot! Not that he ever ate -- that was against his principles, or against the chemicals in his blood -- but a free lunch means free booze -- and that was very for his principles and the chemicals in his blood, both.

But fame. `I don`t believe it` said Billy lamely, the dead receiver still in his hand.

`Help.`

Abandoning the handset to the floor, he lit a cigarette and stumbled giddily from the hall into his room.

He felt profoundly nauseous. His body didn`t miss food too much so long as he remained supine or drunk, but he was neither at the moment, and now with this adrenaline rush on top of this morning`s quart of black instant coffee and ten Camel, his legs suddenly felt rubbery and he badly needed the toilet.

`I don`t believe it. I can`t believe it. I refuse to believe it. Someone`s yanking my chain.` Either that Lucien Savage had put someone up to it -- in which case he was dead meat in the Kropotkin Arms -- or the call was genuine, in which case he would have to face an interview with the gargantuan Justin Lastname . . . and therefrom, record contracts, gigs at Wembley, TV spots, fame, wealth, an active and varied life . . . unlimited sex, drugs . . . everything he had ever wanted. Really, it was a no-win situation.

The thought of drugs helped to steady his mind.