outside world. At those times his stomach would churn, and a band of iron would be 
wrapped around his forehead, crushing his thoughts into fragments, dissociating head from 
hand, intention from practice. He would be swept away in a tide of panic, completely 
unable to make sense of the world while his head sang and rattled.
  But at night came the worst terrors. He would wake, sometimes, in what had been (before 
the accident) the reassuring womb of his bedroom, to find the ringing had begun in his 
sleep.
  His eyes would jerk open. His body would be wet with sweat. His mind would be filled 
with the most raucous din, which he was locked in with, beyond hope of reprieve. Nothing 
could silence his head, and nothing, it seemed, could bring the world, the speaking, 
laughing, crying world back to him.
  He was alone.
  That was the beginning, middle and end of the dread. He was absolutely alone with his 
cacophony. Locked in this house, in this room, in this body, in this head, a prisoner of 
deaf, blind flesh.
  It was almost unbearable. In the night the boy would sometimes cry out, not knowing he 
was making any sound, and the fish who had been his parents would turn on the light and 
come to try and help him, bending over his bed making faces, their soundless mouths 
forming ugly shapes in their attempts to help. Their touches would calm him at last; with 
time his mother learned the trick of soothing away the panic that swept over him.
  A week before his seventh birthday his hearing returned, not perfectly, but well enough 
for it to seem like a miracle. The world snapped back into focus; and life began afresh.
  It took several months for the boy to trust his senses again. He would still wake in 
the night, half-anticipating the head-noises.
  But though his ears would ring at the slightest volume of sound, preventing Steve from 
going to rock concerts with the rest of the students, he now scarcely ever noticed his 
slight deafness.
  He remembered, of course. Very well. He could bring back the taste of his panic; the 
feel of the iron band around his head. And there was a residue of fear there; of the 
dark, of being alone.
  But then, wasn't everyone afraid to be alone? To be utterly alone.
  Steve had another fear now, far more difficult to pin down.
  Quaid.
  In a drunken revelation session he had told Quaid about his childhood, about the 
deafness, about the night terrors.
  Quaid knew about his weakness: the clear route into the heart of Steve's dread. He had 
a weapon, a stick to beat Steve with, should it ever come to that. Maybe that was why he 
chose not to speak to Cheryl (warn her, was that what he wanted to do?) and certainly 
that was why he avoided Quaid.
  
  The man had a look, in certain moods, of malice. Nothing more or less. He looked like a 
man with malice deep, deep in him.
  Maybe those four months of watching people with the sound turned down had sensitized 
Steve to the tiny glances, sneers and smiles that flit across people's faces. He knew 
Quaid's life was a labyrinth; a map of its complexities was etched on his face in a 
thousand tiny expressions.
  The next phase of Steve's initiation into Quaid's secret world didn't come for almost 
three and a half months. The university broke for the summer recess, and the students 
went their ways. Steve took his usual vacation job at his father's printing works; it was 
long hours, and physically exhausting, but an undeniable relief for him. Academe had 
overstuffed his mind, he felt force-fed with words and ideas. The print work sweated all 
of that out of him rapidly, sorting out the jumble in his mind.
  It was a good time: he scarcely thought of Quaid at all.
  He returned to campus in the late September. The students were still thin on the 
ground. Most of the courses didn't start for another week; and there was a melancholy air 
about the place without its usual melee of complaining, flirting, arguing kids.
  Steve was in the library, cornering a few important books before others on his course 
had their hands on them. Books were pure gold at the beginning of term, with reading 
lists to be checked off, and the university book shop forever claiming the necessary 
titles were on order. They would invariably arrive, those vital books, two days after the 
seminar in which the author was to be discussed. This final year Steve was determined to 
be ahead of the rush for the few copies of seminal works the library possessed.
  The familiar voice spoke.
  'Early to work.'
  Steve looked up to meet Quaid's pin-prick eyes.
  'I'm impressed, Steve.' 'What with?' 'Your enthusiasm for the job.' 'Oh.'
  Quaid smiled. 'What are you looking for?'
  'Something on Bentham.'
  'I've got "Principles of Morals and Legislation." Will that do?'
  It was a trap. No: that was absurd. He was offering a book; how could that simple 
gesture be construed as a trap?
  'Come to think of it,' the smile broadened, 'I think it's the library copy I've got. 
I'll give it to you.'
  'Thanks.'
  'Good holiday?'
  'Yes. Thank you. You?'
  'Very rewarding.'
  The smile had decayed into a thin line beneath his -'You've grown a moustache.'
  It was an unhealthy example of the species. Thin, patchy, and dirty-blond, it wandered 
back and forth under Quaid's nose as if looking for a way off his face. Quaid looked 
faintly embarrassed.
  'Was it for Cheryl?'
  He was definitely embarrassed now.
  'Well...'
  'Sounds like you had a good vacation.'
  The embarrassment was surmounted by something else.
  'I've got some wonderful photographs,' Quaid said.
  'What of?'
  'Holiday snaps.'
  Steve couldn't believe his ears. Had C. Fromm tamed the Quaid? Holiday snaps?
  'You won't believe some of them.'
  There was something of the Arab selling dirty postcards about Quaid's manner. What the 
hell were these photo-graphs? Split beaver shots of Cheryl, caught reading Kant?
  'I don't think of you as being a photographer.'
  'It's become a passion of mine.'
  He grinned as he said 'passion'. There was a barely-suppressed excitement in his 
manner. He was positively gleaming with pleasure.
  'You've got to come and see them.'
  'I-'
  'Tonight. And pick up the Bentham at the same time.'