Mouth-to-mouth, the woman had forced him back to life, pumping great sickly-sweet gusts of bad breath into him. Sickl-sweet, she smiled down at him, pushing the painkilllers into his dry mouth with her big, work-coarsened fingers. Coyly, smilingly, she pillow-plumped and nursey-talked and made sure he finished up every las little scrap.

He was a writer. She was his Number One Fan. She'd pulled him out of the car-wreck, brought him home, splinted and set his mangled legs. All he had to doin return was to write: a very special book, just for her, all about her favourite character from his novels. One he'd killed off and now had to bring back to life.

Because if he didn't if he was Bad and Didn't Do What Nurse Told Him, she would be cross - very cross - and do things that would make him scream and scream...