Don't ask me what I was doing when the phone rang. I don't remember. It gets that way; something more important happens and things just reset, don't they? Things start over from that point. I think I'm lucky I remember the phone ringing at all. I couldn't have been doing anything important, because I don't think I snapped when I answered. I think I just said hello.

It was only after the initial question that I started to get a bit annoyed.

"Moran, why would I have one of your passports? Given the details and photograph on it are going to feature six and a half feet of black muscle, what use would that be to me?"

"No, I think I left it there. This was ages ago, mate, this was before everything. It's just, if it's the one I'm thinking of, the name's coming back on me. If you don't have it I need go looking for it again."

I was composing a sentence in my mind. Well, more of a fragment, really. It would be the word 'you' followed by eight complimentary insults in different languages I've picked up in the last couple of years, and ending back at English with an exclamation point.

I don't know if you've ever had a Bulgarian farmer have a go at you, but I'm sure my father's sheep would have been very insulted if either of those things existed.

But then, and there was a strange sense of epiphany to go along with it, "Hold on, this is ringing bells, actually. I'll check the safe. Stay on the line."

I made my way to the office. "Right-o, mate. Mind you, I'm starting not to care if you don't find it. Rather tear open every hiding place in every flat I ever had than be watching this fucking shit-show right now." The match. He was talking about the football match. I have alerts sent to my phone when Liverpool are playing, and when they're losing. That way I know what mood he's going to be in, whether it's worthwhile trying to speak to him at all.

He was still talking about that when I found the Angel huddled over my desk. In front of her, she had a bit of string laid out on newspaper, and was colouring it in with a whiteboard marker. "What… what're you doing?"

"Sorry, sir," she mumbled. "I ran out of green and I need another strand."

"Well, take it elsewhere, would you? I'm in the middle of something here."

Moran, on the phone, "Who're you talking to?"

"The Angel. She keeps making these little bracelets and I keep finding them places."

"I know, mate. I've got two of my own."

I let that conversation stop there. It wasn't something I wanted to complain about. See, she bites her tongue whenever she's doing something complicated, and it keeps her from singing. I'll take that trade-off any day, thank you. "Moran, I'm putting you down for a minute while I have a look. Now you're alright? You can stay where you are?"

"I think I'll manage…"

"You're not going to get all riled up and run off to murder a ref, are you?"

"I'll get him tomorrow, when he's at home and thinks he's safe except from the Twitter abuse."

I put the phone on the desk before I could figure out if he meant that or not. In retrospect, I think I put the phone down because I knew he did. Just didn't want to let that sink in, not to think too hard about that.

And before I can start thinking about it now, we'll move on, thanks.

My safe isn't disguised. There's no need to dress it up as a drinks cabinet or behind a painting, anything stupid like that. For one, it's too bloody big. Believe me when I tell you it's not going anywhere. For another, I had a thief pick it out for me. And show me how to change the code the second she left, but the fact remains, I had expert help. Nobody's getting into it without diamond bits and blow-torches – and even then I'll never tell.

The best part is, you think I'm joking.

Anyway, there's a box at the back of the bottom shelf for things which don't belong to me. It's a mishmash really. Hard to pick any particular item that stands out. I suppose, if I really look at it with a stranger's eyes, maybe the bones remaining from a pair of detached thumbs? Or the preserved eyeball? I don't know. Those shouldn't even really be there. The point of them is that they belong to me now.

But there, under Evie Fairchild's dog-tags and a pocket magnifier I nicked a long time ago, yes, there was a passport. I tried pulling it out to check it was his. It got stuck. Under the lip of the box, I think. Doesn't really matter, it got stuck anyway, and the box jolted forward out of its corner. Something square and shiny flashed behind it. And because I didn't remember anything being behind the box, out of simple curiosity, I reached out and took it.

Turned out it was a photograph. I looked at it, I think, for too long. There was a crackle coming from the phone up on the desk. I reached up and brought it down to me again. "Give me a second, Moran."

"If you don't have it, it doesn't matter."

"No, I… Hold on." With the photo between two fingers, I dislodged the passport. Checked the details in the back and yeah, there he was, all his grim, bald glory, looking as close to his mug shot as I ever want to see. "Yeah, it's here." A moment was lost while he made noises of relief and so forth. "It's under Kevin Pike?"

"That's the non-existent bastard."

"I take it you want this burnt?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

I gave it to the Angel, in the end. She likes burning things. Especially things with plastic coverings that curl up and go black and melt. Just that bit more interesting for her than paper, I suppose. Not to mention, it makes things go easier between us if I throw her these little pleasures. And I'm telling you all of this, not because I give the very slightest shit about the Angel's enjoyments and preferences and not because I think you do, but to show you what sort of gap, what sort of silence, was going on. If you were Moran, you might have assumed I was gone already, wouldn't you? You might have hung up. But he seemed to know.

He held the line and, after a certain amount of time and me having another long look at that photograph, "What is it?"

"Do you have a clean passport, currently?"

You can picture me if you want, sitting on the floor with this stupid photo, telling myself lies. He hadn't done a job for me since I came back from the grave. He needed to be weighed and measured. I might not like the idea, but he could be rusty, or disloyal. And that, in my mind, was why I was doing it. It's a fair point. It's a consideration. But I could have sent him to kill that Liverpool ref if I wanted to test him, couldn't I? He would have enjoyed it more, and trusted me because of that. Didn't have to send him all the way to New York.

From where I was sitting, I could see the Angel out on the couch. Done turning string green, it seemed, and tying it on amongst the rest. Even though she had one foot on the coffee table so her toes could hold the end, and the other strands in her teeth to leave both hands free, an awkward huddle of pointy-jointed bones, I was watching her fingers move around the knots and tying off ends close and tight. And I thought to myself, Not a bad idea.

By the time I got off the phone, Moran was coming over to talk about it. I had work to do, but first I'd get rid of his old passport. Otherwise that was going to go by the wayside. I left the office carrying that and a pair of scissors. Cut it into pieces, shred the stamp pages, spread it all out a bit. I wasn't originally going to burn it.

But the photograph was still in my hand. Don't know if I was even aware of that.

Despite being tangled, in string and her own limbs equally, the Angel craned to see it. "Aw!" I heard, which is never a good word. "Is that you?" All of this, you understand, came through her teeth while she was still holding her strands taut. "God, what are you, like, fifteen? Tell you what, if you were in school now, that whole pale-and-interesting thing is really big. You'd be doing well for yourself." I was beginning, by now, to realize I had a large pair of steel scissors in my hand, and the back of her neck was right there. Bare, stretched-out, exposed. Pale and interesting. "And who's the other lad?"

In that moment I did the very worst thing I could think to do to her. I opened the scissors, reached down and snipped her knotted bracelet at the halfway point. Her head snapped back like a rubber band. But she recovered quick enough from the whiplash, and sat straight again. The noise she made when she realized what had happened wasn't human. Then she jumped up and ran back to her bedroom to sulk.

After that, I couldn't bring myself to take the scissors to the passport. I'd leave that for her. And maybe I'd let her go out and buy herself some new string and all. It hadn't really been her fault. She's not right in the head; she can't do anything but talk shite. And it's a fair question, really, when you see someone you know in a photo with someone you don't.

…Jesus, do you see what you just read? Do you?

Because I've been contending with thoughts like that ever since this bloody photo appeared. I should say, for the record, I don't remember putting it in the safe. I don't remember bringing it to this flat. I don't remember having it with me while I was beyond this vale of tears, or putting it in storage before I shuffled off. I don't remember having it at the old place, or the one before that. I don't remember it being taken.

But now that it's here I can't forget. From the second I saw it, it's been in my head. I find myself going back to it when I'm idle and not even knowing how I got there.

And here's the truth, here's the honest truth – the second I saw it I forgot Moran was on the phone.

I just get the feeling I might have been through all this before, y'know? Well, this is the last time. It's over, after this. In fact, it all ought to be over somewhere in the next few hours. Seb called again. This time from New York. Said he thought he'd found him, and if he's right it woudlnt' take long. And I don't see how he could be wrong, y'know? A person is or isn't. And when he's got a name and a city and a profession and a couple of other details to match up… I just don't see how he could've got it wrong.

So, and it's not exactly that I'm hanging by the telephone or anything, I'll probably wait up. Work to do, anyway. And it's late, so there's no need to worry about the Angel. She's a long time sleeping, deep in a pleasant dream, I hope, all full of flame and feathers. But yes, I have work to do. What I think I'll do is sit here and see to that. Maybe have a stiff drink or two.

Try and stop looking at that fecking photograph, because if I do that, I really am just sitting here waiting for the phone to ring.

[A/N – If anybody is waiting for updates on Monopoly/Season Of The Witch, I'm sorry. I've been so low this week, it just hasn't happened. But they are in the post, be with you all soon. Promise.x]