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told him. Therefore Oliver Anderson could create a past that was not too difficult for him to absorb.
    When he was about twenty, he met a tramp who had a fantastic talent for painting. In a couple of hours, with the right materials, he could produce a Picasso, or a Modigliani, or a Klee, or a Van Gogh, or a Pollock that would confound the experts. (Dr. Badel, late psychologist, had encountered such a person who had served ten years for art forgeries). It was from this tramp that Oliver Anderson learned to appreciate the magic of colour, the occult beauty of line.
    As he tackled another canvas and talked to the amazed girl who sat watching him, Badel found himself slipping into his new role easily. The northern accent with its short
a
and its lost
h
seemed to come quite naturally. He found that he enjoyed painting. Perhaps he should have been a painter, a real one…
    “What’s me name, love?”
    “Oliver.” The response was now automatic.
    “Oliver what, you girt bitch?”
    “Oliver Anderson.”
    “Where did I meet you?”
    “London. I was mainlining. You got me off it.”
    “That’s right. I got you off it for the screws, you understand. Nothing personal.”
    “Yes, Oliver, you got me off it for the screws.” To Vanessa, it was still an unreal game. “Am I good enough in bed then?”
    He looked at her calmly. “I’ve had better, and I’ve had worse. You’ll do for the time being.”
    Vanessa laughed. He hit her.
    “Put on some music, you stupid child. Play anything that will block you. Understand?”
    Tears trickled down her face, Vanessa nodded dumbly. She selected the 1812 once more. The cannons seemed to be shooting straight at her.
    He came and held her close. “Listen, little one. The charade is for real. We are trying to ensure that they cannot trace you through me. You don’t know whereyou are, but you do know who you are with. Let them steal that information while you are sleeping, relaxed, unguarded, and the air will be black with Security choppers… Who am I?”
    “Oliver Anderson.” She wiped away the tears and smiled. “Probably the worst painter in the United Kingdom.”
    “Misunderstood,” he said, in his best northern accent, “just misunderstood. I’m ahead of my time, love. Not to worry. Posterity will accord me the honour that is due.”
    “I love you,” said Vanessa, as the cannon crashed loud. “You really care about me. You are the first
adult
to really care about me. I love you.”
    He kissed her. “Darling Vanessa, I love you also, as you well know. But try to remember that you are supposed to be here just for the screws. Unless you can be sure of your blocks—and you can’t—you must think of me as a rather crude middle-aged failure still thinking he can make the big time, as they say in stone-age movies. I’m good for a bed and food and a few hand-outs, but not much else. You are simply using me and waiting until you can steal enough money to get across to France, or Germany or Denmark. If you are as good as I think you are, the people who are trying to trace you will be utterly ruthless. They will stop at nothing to get you back or take you out. It will help if they think you are planning to leave the country.”
    “Take me out?” Vanessa did not understand.
    “It means kill, love. Very probably, if they think you could be an embarrassment, they will try to kill you.”
    She was amazed. “Why should anyone want to kill me?”
    He sighed. “Until you came along, I didn’t want to have anything to do with the rest of the world. As youknow, I have no tri-di, no V-phone. I have taped music and a transistor radio that I never used. But, since you came, I began to listen to the newscasts. There was a Parliamentary Question about you, Vanessa. Sir Joseph Humboldt didn’t like it. He was of the implied opinion that you don’t exist. There will be few people who want to prove him wrong, and a number of highly trained specialists who will be well paid to prove him