 Poison, read by Richard E. Grant. It must have been around midnight when I drove home, and as I approached the gates of the bungalow I switched off the headlamps of the car so the beam wouldn't swing in through the window of the side-bedroom and wake Harry Pope. But I needn't have bothered. Coming up the drive, I noticed his light was still on, say who's awake anyway, unless perhaps he'd dropped off while reading. I parked the car and went up the five steps to the balcony, counting each step carefully in the dark so I wouldn't take an extra one which wasn't there when I got to the top. I crossed the balcony, pushed through the screen-doors into the house itself, and switched on the light in the hall. I went across to the door of Harry's room, opened it quietly, and looked in. He was lying on the bed, and I could see he was awake, but he didn't move. He didn't even turn his head towards me, but I heard him say, he spoke slowly, whispering each word carefully, separately, and I pushed the door right open and started to go quickly across the room. I could hardly hear what he was saying. He seemed to be straining enormously to get the words out. What's the matter, Harry? He whispered. The way he was speaking reminded me of George Barling after he got shot in the stomach when he stood leaning against a crate containing a spare aeroplane engine, holding both hands on his stomach, and saying things about the German pilot in just the same horse-straining half-whisper Harry was using now. I couldn't understand about taking off the shoes, but I figured that if he was as ill as he sounded, I'd better humour him, so I bent down and removed the shoes and left them in the middle of the floor. Then I went over to his bed. Sample complete. Ready to continue?