No. "Yes."

She was gone, and he didn't need to know where. Why shouldn't this magical night include a disappearing act, he thought. He'd had what he wanted; a single moment in time when she belonged to him, and only him. He'd asked the heavens to throw him a bone, and - as it turned out, it's true what they say; every dog has his day.

He ran a hand over the empty side of the bed–tracing her warmth in the dark. His hand resurfaced from under the cover with a strap of some sort. Black and lacy. Delicate. Torn from her garter or bra, perhaps. He wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it was coming with him—not as a souvenir, but evidence that he wasn't dreaming.

He leant over and stuffed it into his tweed jacket pocket, then hopped up and collected the rest of his scattered clothes from the bedroom floor. As he buttoned his jeans he glanced out of the bedroom window at a view that took his breath away. The moon hung full and proudly in a sky that was just about surrendering to daybreak. The sleepy hills stretched far and wide until they dissolved into the darkness that dawn had yet to touch. In the distance, he could hear the sound of tranquil waves stirring and breaking in gorgeous, metronomic harmony. Not bad for a two-bedroom flat in lower Ends Valley, he thought, and with this thought came a harsh rumble of thunder that jolted his dreamy eyes wide open.

The cracked paint of his faded magnolia ceiling was his new viewpoint, and the rumbling thunder must have been the heavy pounding inside of his aching head. His throat was dry and weezy, and as he reached for the glass of water he hoped (in vein, as it turned out) to find on his bedside table, he felt another blinding pain. This time, in his right hand. As he brought it closer for inspection–the strangest thing; The scent of her came with it.

The feeling washed over him like that first swallow of wine on a hot, summer night. He closed his eyes to it, to capture it, before it, too, faded like those sweetest of dreams always did. Then, the return of thunder shook him upright. It wasn't his head, after all. It was a rattling at his front door.

He laboured to his unsteady feet, and felt the nausea and inflammation starting to stir in the pit of his stomach. He opened and closed his hand and the cold pain persisted. As he approached the door, a new shock wave was sent shooting to his brain. This time, by way of the sole of his foot. He hopped it off the ground and observed the damage. A tiny red dot had appeared–but it wasn't tiny for long. Blood gathered and overflowed like lava from a tiny, crystal volcano. The volcano, he realised, was a piece of glass. He reached for it carefully before the door rattled again.

"Just a minute!" he yelled, with a voice as hoarse as it was agitated.

He successfully picked the glass from the wound, holding it up for inspection like a bloody murder weapon. He placed the culprit down on his radiator cover before sensing the presence of another imposter in his territory. Not just one, as it happened. Thousands of them.

On the floor by his front door, was a small pile of broken glass, twinkling like stars in the night sky.

"Mr Raven, open up, please. It's an emergency." came the voice from the other side of the door.

He shuffled around the collection of glass that he could see, knowing full well there were hundreds of little assassin's that he could not, laying low, like snipers.

He looked through the peephole and was reminded that the corridor light was on the fritz. He picked out curly hair from the frustrated-looking silhouette on the other side and the scent of Amber returned. He remembered holding her close in his dream, her hair falling all around him as he kissed her in the hallway of her apartment. Her–leaning against her front door, reaching for the handle, him–with his hand on the small of her back, pulling her in, not just kissing her but injecting her. Soft, urgent breaths__

"Mr Raven..."

He cracked the door open.

"Yes?"

He recognised but didn't know her.

"Have you had someone out to look at your water pump?"

No

"Yes."

"Because there's water coming through the ceiling of my bathroom again."

The leak, that's right.

He recalled the drip-drop around the clock that had driven him nuts as he was trying to drift off.

"Yeah, the guy is coming back with the bit..."

He hoped it was enough. It wasn't.

"What bit?" she probed.

"The bit for the... to fix it."

She wasn't buying a bit of it. Good for her, he thought.

"Well, when's he coming?"

"Any time, now." he replied, quickly and unconvincingly.

"Really?" she looked him up and down, "Do you even know what the time is?"

No

"Yes."

She took a deep sigh: "I heard some loud noises in the night."

"Noises?"

She nodded. He waited.

"What kind?" he asked, blinking first.

"I don't know. Banging. Howling."

"Howling?"

She considered him with an unwavering scrutiny.

"Whatever. Will you keep me posted about the pump, please?"

"Surely."

He closed the door and flicked the hallway light on. He opened the door to his airing cupboard and wasn't surprised by what he saw. Water had gathered in little puddles around the base of the heating cylinder. The bronze pipes that connected to it like life-support tubes glistened with condensation. As he turned away, something caught his eye. It was the pile of glass on the floor–rather, the curious orangey-red tinge the light had exposed on it. He crouched down to find little specs of red within the shattered fragments of glass. They resembled the bloody culprit on his radiator cover.

The dream. His mind cast back to leaving Amber's place. His heart raced with the memory of screeching through the dark, country lanes with Mason - her husband, hot on his tale. He could see his steely, determined face with vivid detail in his rear-view mirror—stoic, but for his eyes that were wild in a way that was almost cartoonish.

Wasn't there a crash?

He could hear the shotgun crunch of metal on metal amidst the smell of smoke and burning rubber. The memory was flooding back now, and John Raven was being pulled under by another detail that resurfaced...

"Broken glass."

It was everywhere. On the road, on his clothes. He held his busted hand up again. Mason's wide-eyed, bloody face flashed before him as he struggled to free himself from the shattered door of his contorted vehicle. He could feel himself raining down wild punches in a frenzy of pure fear and adrenalin.

The shrill ring of the phone snapped him out his daze. He limped through the hallway towards it, tracking tiny red dots from the cut on his foot, as though he was leaving a trail of little crimson breadcrumbs. He spotted his tweed jacket hanging on a chair and remembered the view from Amber's room.

He clutched the phone.

"Hello?"

"Where have you been?"

He was taken aback by the hostile tone that greeted him.

"...Johnny?" the voice persisted.

"I've been here." he said, trying to place the voice.

"That's not what I've heard. You know who this is, right?"

No.

"Yes."

"I'll tell them to circle back. This is your last chance, ok? No messing around."

John switched focus to a mountain of papers at his make-shift office/dining area. Papers flung about chaotically, some of them had been drenched–the glass water jug laying on it's side the obvious suspect.

"John!" the voice snapped.

"Tell 'em what you want."

There was a pause on the line.

"Hello?" he said.

"Where've you been?"

"Nowhere. I've been working."

Then it hit him.

The manuscript...

John looked back over to the table, realising that the water may have claimed the pages of his work.

"You've been drinking haven't you? Drinking that stuff again."

"I've gotta go."

"Answer me. You've been dancing with the green witch - or whatever it's called, again haven't you?"

"Green Fairy."

"That's not part of the deal, John."

"It's only when I'm close."

He slammed the phone down and rushed over to the desk, snatching at the papers that were scattered around. Tiny grainy fragments fell from the first stack of pages he picked up, making a musical rattle as they hit the table top, and he felt a slimy texture on the very top page he held. Confusion was a flash visit as a quick scan of the desk solved that mystery at once. A small bowl half filled with sugar cubes–the lucky souls that survived the spillage.

The caller's right, whoever they are, he thought, as he searched the table for the third musketeer. A quick shuffle found it hiding beneath a page of manuscript–a slotted spoon, or... an Absinthe Spoon, as it can be called. He observed melted gunk that had accumulated around the edges of the grill–the sugar that held on for dear life and refused to be dissolved by the water. John shook his head. His process - more of a ritual, at this point - of drinking this stuff when on the home stretch of his first draft looked to have been more trouble than it was worth this time. He'd tried to summon the creative spirits–Van Gough, Hemingway... those that had danced with the green fairy before him, and now, he couldn't bare to guess how many pages were history.

After a brief hesitation, he made himself consult the text.

It wasn't as bad as he feared; most of the pages were mercifully spared. There were a handful of goners–completely drenched beyond recognition. Some of the manuscript was affected, but saveable. There were sections that came under fire and the words ran into each other– He flicked through, surveying the damage, when his eyes fell upon a passage that wasn't typed like the rest of his story, but handwritten. He was drawn to a half-bled line that made his own blood run cold.

Wild eyes took a dive, fire burned and now she's mine...

"What did I do?"

His concentration was broken by something in the distance. Something faint and familiar, and instantly infuriating.

The drip-drop around the clock.

He could hear the leak again. It seemed to echo louder and louder, as though it was approaching him. The only thing he knew for sure about last night is that thing drove him crazy. He shot up to his feet and thundered down the hall, throwing the bathroom door open and slapping the light on.

The sight of Mason standing in his bathroom forced a breathless scream. His eyes were big and wild and utterly delighted that John had stumbled into his trap. The harsh, pale light reflected off of his shiny head–making the glistening tubes of his broken water heater briefly flash in John's mind. His clothes smelt of damp and earth and his skin was riddled with small lacerations and bruises—evidence of the crash, the fight, and his unlikely escape from the twisted tomb of his car where John had left him to die.

He took a step towards John and that was enough to finally draw the scream out of his host. He covered up and stumbled back, falling against the frame of the door and banging the back of his head. When he opened his eyes again, Mason was gone. John's heart pounded and the sound of his own heavy breathing flooded his ears. His eyes darted around and fell upon a familiar sight; broken glass. It was everywhere. His gaze was drawn to the mirror above his sink, which had a black hole in the middle of it and ripples and shards of glass surrounding it, and it all came back to him.

The drip-drop, he thought. He steadied himself and walked over towards the bathtub. He could see the leak dripping from the busted tap and falling into the drain that was orbited by a ring of water damage and lime scale.

That's right, I finally lost it and punched the mirror. Drove my fist right through it. I... I remember.

He looked at his injured fist and recalled the late night moment with a satisfying lucidity. He could feel the relief settling in.

Then, I came out of here...

He retraced his steps towards the airing cupboard.

I opened this door to see the state of things and brought a whole chunk of that glass with me.

He only enjoyed the moment briefly before he was startled by a banging at his door. He didn't consult the peep-hole this time. Aside from the faulty light in the hall, he knew what awaited him on the other side–his nosy neighbour with another noise enquiry.

He was wrong. When he answered, his heart was sent racing once again.

"Amber."

There she stood, a beacon of light against the backdrop of darkness. It wasn't stockings and silk dresses and wild hair like the night before, but rather a business suit, light make-up and a work bag. He didn't care. He could dream her any which way.

"Hello John. How nice of you to answer this time."

She walked past him and into the flat, and her scent was almost more than he could take.

"Be careful there." he said, pointing out the pile of glass.

She glanced at it before looking him up and down. He was still topless in his pyjama bottoms.

"Are you ok?" she asked.

"Yeah. Late night," he said, rubbing the back of his head that was still throbbing, "come in."

They went through to the living room and Amber took a seat on the sofa, taking a folder out of her work bag. She spotted the carnage on his dining table.

"Late night, huh?"

"Yeah. Burning the midnight oil."

She surveyed the rest of the room and noticed the bottle of green liquid on his unit.

"And that?" she said, gesturing towards it.

"Occupational hazard." he replied.

"I'm not laughing, Johnny. Your reckless drinking is what got us here."

"Every cloud."

"Joke all you want, but you could have killed someone in that crash, including yourself."

"Crash?"

"Yeah, back in June. You do remember your day in court, don't you? I'm here to help, but this ..."

"I know it. I'm gonna stop, honestly. Think I reached a turning point."

"I had to tell my supervisor that you weren't here earlier."

"I know." he said, recalling the hostile caller.

"OK, so shall we make a start? Better late than never, huh?"

"Yeah. Absolutely."

She consulted her notes: "OK, we were discussing your childhood bully last time. You recalled his 'wild eyes','"

He held her in a gaze that she could feel burning into her.

"John__"

"You look just... lovely today."

"Thank you. Let's keep this professional, ok? Speaking of which, why don't you put some clothes on?"

"If you insist."

He picked up the tweed jacket on the back of his chair, putting it on as he slumped onto the sofa opposite her.

"OK, let's start with the usual evaluation." she said.

"Whatever you say, doc."

He put his hands in his jacket pockets.

In the right one he felt the harsh sensation of needles and pins. Little, tiny fragments of glass.

In the left, he felt something silky and lacy. Delicate.

He still wasn't sure exactly what it was.

Amber looked at him.

"OK. Any feelings of longing or loneliness?"

Yes

"No."