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said—It’s masturbation that makes you feel ill? I had wanted to say—Oh I know that’s no reason to think there’s anything wrong in it!
    I tried to jump out of bed. The messages could not quite get through to my muscles from my brain.
    I thought—There are men with guns lined up on the ground to shoot down these carrier pigeons.
    One of the books of philosophy that I admired that was not to do with the Sceptics, was Plato’s
Phaedrus.
Here images lived a life of their own: they seemed to be free even within the cages of reasoning. There was the image of a person being someone in a chariot pulled by two horses, the one good and the other bad. It was the bad horse that pulled a person down from the road to the gods along which the good horse was taking him: but it was also this dark horse that enabled him perhaps to get back on to the road to the gods again; for it would be the dark horse that dragged him to recognise, and thus to make contact with, his beloved; and so he grew wings, and was reminded of the gods again.
    Dr Anders would say—Did Plato really say that?
    I would say—Well, it seems to me he did.
    I wondered if it would help me to get out of bed and go down to Uncle Bill’s study if I pretended to myself that what I was going to do was to get at my small store of pornography; then when I was on my feet I could make a dash for the study; so that it would have been my dark horse that had got me back on the road to the gods again.
    I had such a terrible ache in my head, my groin: I thought—This is a suspension of judgement?
    â€” Oh where was my beloved!
    I thought—What terrible battles are fought like Hastings or Waterloo halfway across the floors of bed-sitting-rooms towards cupboards!
    I was like a man being beaten up by police on television. I could say—All right! I give in! What I wanted was just the story of Miss Paragon and the Belgian Schoolgirls —
    Was this in fact why people were beaten up by police? because they, or the police, were, or were not, ashamed of their stores of pornographic feelings?
    Oh come on, come on, my dark horse; take me to my beloved!
    I was making such an effort to get my dressing-gown on and to reach the door of my bedroom that I thought my mind might tear with the weight round the nails through it.
    I thought—Oh where is the bird that must have perched on that loved one’s shoulder then!
    There was a sort of scraping noise coming from behind the walls in the direction of the attic.
    I thought—That old spider, in my head, my groin, is scratching in the attic?
    I had moved on to the landing, with caution, to see who might be there.
    I thought—A plumber?
    But then—Does not this word now refer to someone fixing up electronic surveillance?
    I could say to Dr Anders—Just tell me, will you, how I get away from all these images?
    â€” The birds falling down from the sky like shot pigeons —
    Would in fact it be better if one just masturbated in the attic?
    There should not be anyone in this part of the house at weekends. I wondered—Might the shot from Uncle Bill’s study have gone right through Aunt Mavis’ bedroom and up into the roof? and there is a man mending the hole there?
    As I was watching the door into the attic the handle began to turn.
    I thought—In films, this shot would be too corny; but it is still alarming.
    The door opened. A man with crinkly hair looked out. When he saw me he seemed upset.
    He said ‘They didn’t tell me!’
    I began stammering.
    I thought—He’ll think I’m gibbering with fear.
    He went to the staircase and looked down. He was wearing a tweed jacket and grey flannel trousers.
    He said ‘Are there any more of you?’
    I wanted to say—Of course not!
    He said ‘I was supposed to have done this job last week. I’ll get into trouble if they know I’m doing it now.’
    He looked at me accusingly. He