The universe wants to play with you (part 28)

Driving away from the bus stop with Corrado in the back, it struck me how odd this all was, not so much someone falling through space, seen that and done it but the fact it should have been him who turned up. Now that's weird synchronicity.

But it was the dwarves that was most weird - what was that about? How were they waiting there? And why dwarves? There's something we don't know and I don't like that.

Corrado was paranoid. Understandably. He didn't want to go to a café in case he was recognised (unlikely) or stopped by the police (equally unlikely). He was also worried about his cat and how was he going to get fed. Most of all, he was worried about how he was going to get home. I had a possible plan for this but didn't say anything, I just wanted to find a way to calm him down. While he was cowering in the back seat with a jacket over his head Sanders and I were working out what to do with him.

The easiest and safest solution was to go to a supermarket to get food, then take him back to Sanders' house, feed him and put him to bed. This became complicated as Corrado didn't want to sit in the car in a car park so I had to drive round the streets while Sanders went into Countdown. When we picked him up, he'd bought Corrado sunglasses and a baseball cap as well; this seemed to relax him once he put them on, the psychological value of a disguise paying top dollar in the mind.

Back at the house, Corrado's uneasiness ebbed away slowly, food, drink and the curtains drawn making him more like his normal self. After half an hour, he went to bed while I took Sanders to the garage to pick up his car then I went to see Fernanda.

Only the second time I'd met her but I already knew how tiring it was to talk to her and she didn't

disappoint, despite being tired and shocked by the death; she couldn't just tell you something, instead it had to be acted out with accompanying accents like a demented mime artist who's decided to betray the memory of Marcel Marceau by channelling the citizens of Babel.

I knew most of what Fernanda told me but she didn't know that and I wasn't about to tell her; in fact, it was only after she ambushed me in the café that I realised who she was and the same went for her too which really shocked her. But now we were both on the same side and she'd wanted to see me for my advice on what to do. That was easy and simple, don't mention it on the phone or emails, don't mention the deathless girls at all. anywhere where you might be heard-they might not have worked it out yet but they will.

It wasn't all just one-sided, she spread out a few clues about matters that intrigued me but the oddest story was about a man she met in Romania who'd taught her a lot of the techniques she used in how to meditate, visualise and move between dimensions. He still wrote to her regularly with advice, ideas and warnings, usually in short cryptic sentences that often made no sense but suddenly became meaningful later. This was another synchronistic moment as a lot of what she said about him sounded just like Adam Brik who I'd known for years but was a self-fulfilling mystery.

When Sanders had told me that someone had appeared in his factory, I half expected it to be Brik; he has this habit of turning up in the strangest places. I was walking through the British Museum one day when the kids were young and he suddenly jumped out from behind an Assyrian gate

, 'Hawthorn, at last. I've been coming here everyday for two weeks to wait for you. Must have got my dates wrong.' So bizarre, him standing there with his long ragged hair and a face like a rugged cliff, rigged out in leather trousers, army boots, tattered old Hawkwind T shirt and a denim jacket that would bring tears to Levi Strauss' eyes.

He stayed with us for 3 months after that, sleeping in a tent in the garden; the children and all their friends loved listening to him tell his strange stories, some of which may even have been true. He already knew my parents and went to see them for a few days, becoming one of the few non family members allowed to read the material in the Flode archives. I wondered if there was connection between him and Fernanda's Romanian but I kept quiet for now. Old habits die hard.

Driving away from there, I was really pleased I'd been to see her, she was definitely one for the future, another piece of the puzzle.