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    Mr Dickens has got a whole lifetime’s worth of stuff stowed away, all sorts of things. Some of them very useful to me. A canvas bed, a couple of deck chairs, a kettle. It’s OK.
    I like Mr Dickens. He’s ancient and a wreck to look at but interesting. He’s full of stories. He hasn’t gone soft in the head or anything like that. He does ask me about myself but I’m evasive. Not rude, I answer his questions but I don’t give anything away. You can say anything, you know. Who really cares if it’s the truth?
    I felt furious with the Doggo person when I thought about it. He really dumped me in it. There I was minding my own business, living my own life, maintaining my balance, when he barges in and puts me in a position where I end up having to steal a bag I don’t even want. And that slow smile, that eyeful. The more I thought about it the more mad I got. Why was I so easy on him? Letting him go off like that leaving the table scorched and not giving a shit about me or my job. I got so angry I could hardly sit still. You cannot keep your balance if you feel like that.
    I think myself up to the wire but I can’t put out my foot. It is too deep below me and too dangerous. I am not steady enough to balance. I have to sort this out. I can’t have people breaking into my life and spoiling my balance like that. I just can’t have it.

Four
    When I arrived at Mrs Banks’ on Friday a figure lurched out of the bushes. It was Doggo and he nearly stopped my heart. I had been OK. Getting on OK. Though the day before Mr Dickens had told me a really horrible story. You can be safe and steady for weeks, then suddenly everything starts to go awry. Things happen, people turn up, people tell you things you really don’t want to know.
    Thursday afternoons is Mr Dickens. The obvious way would be to go up the cellar stairs and emerge in his hall, but those steep stairs – there’s no light and – and anyway I have to give the illusion of having just arrived.
    So I creep out, up the cobbled drive on to the street, then back up his front path, which is broken and lumped up with roots from the trees that stretch across as if they’re trying to join hands. I press the doorbell – which is quite something. Mr Dickens had a school kid round doing a GCSE technology project on a doorbell for the hard of hearing. He must have got an A. When you press the button, which is ivory and crazed like an old tooth, you get an ear-splitting blast of what Mr Dickens says is the Trumpet Voluntary which you could probably hear on the moon. Followed by half an hour of dog battering itself to death on the door before Mr Dickens gets there – what with getting up out of his chair and his Zimmer and all. Nowadays I just ring and go straight in, he knows me that well.
    I hurry past the boarded-up room. It’s one of the big front rooms and it’s nailed shut. Literally nailed shut with a plank of wood across the door frame. The curtains of the room are drawn so you can’t see in from the outside either. Why would anyone want to board up a room like that? That’s the kind of thing I have to keep my mind off.
    Doughnut nearly knocked me over in the hall. He always goes berserk when anybody comes into the house. He’s a fat spaniel with blind white eyes and matted lumps all round his ears. As soon as he knew it was me he staggered straight back to his place by the fire and keeled over.
    When I went in Mr Dickens’ face broke into about a million crinkles. He said, ‘Ah, there you are, Lamb,’ which he always says, then hauled himself out of his chair to make the tea. It takes him so long it sends you round the bend or breaks your heart depending on your mood. His hands are silvery as driftwood and they shake like mad so you’re lucky to get half a cup by the time you get it. I once offered to do it and he did let me but it wasn’t right. He seemed to