'Aren't you supposed to be Morgan Furzedown?'

'We need to set you up with somebody,' says DeWitt.

'We need to set you up with somebody. When was your last girlfriend?'

'I had a few dates with a bacon roll last year... she was a little on the greasy side, though. And there was that iced finger we met at the bus-stop. She was a bit more Gregg's than Taste The Difference, if you know what I mean.'

DeWitt stares blankly at the passing shops as they search for a new place to lunch. The trattoria on the corner? Done it. That pizzeria in Hay's Galleria? Don't ask.

'You've dated a human girl though, surely... ' Morgan asks, plonking him down on the table as they slip into a coffee shop just by London Bridge.

'Too many. They're crazy... some have tried to eat me.'

'But you're a sandwich. That's natural. That's normal.'

'I wouldn't try and eat you.'

'You're about one fiftieth of the size of me. What do you want?'

'The least trendy coffee on the menu.'

As they watch the world go by, men in puffa vests and silly boots, people with armfuls of dead pig and twentysomethings in high-street gypsy clothes, a familiar beat comes on the stereo.

'Guess who I bumped into the other day' cries DeWitt. 'Esther!'

Esther is their other flatmate- she's lived there for two years and they probably see her about twice a month.

'Hold on, isn't this song one of mine?' says Morgan, almost spilling his coffee.

DeWitt gets angry.

'Watch out! I'm permeable, you know!'

'Excuse me,' Morgan heads to the counter. 'Whose music is this?'

The man behind must be the same age as Morgan, his mid twenties, but the contrast of massive farmer's beard and incredibly youthful eyes made him look somehow like a kid in a wig.

'It's Mischa's. She does the playlist.'

'Well that's my band. It's uh... ambient dub-hop.'

'Wait a second... I'm gonna write that down. That's good, that is.'

Morgan looks proud and glances at a confused DeWitt, who seems to be watching a fight on the street outside.

'Oh, hold on.' says the coffee man. He clears his throat, dramatically. 'Aren't you supposed to be Morgan Furzedown?'

'Yes. Yes! Of course that's me. Yep. My band. Moorrgan...'

'I'm supposed to give you this from the Syndicate.'

The man reaches beneath the counter and hands Morgan a phone. He suddenly adopts a sinister face.

'What's this for?'

'You left it on that table. The one in the corner. Last time you came in.'

'No I didn't.'

'Oh yes you did.'

'I've never been here before. And I wouldn't buy a shitty phone like that.' Morgan reaches into his pocket. 'I'm actually an iPhone user?'

'Maybe the talking sandwich left it.'

'He has a Motorola pay-as-you go.'

'Well if it's not yours then why has it got all your numbers in it?'

The coffee man lifts up the phone, scrolls through and Morgan sees- Dad, Devlin, DeWitt, Diane, Egbert, Esther...

'Take it,' says the man. 'It's yours.'

People only say that in films were something ludicrous is about to happen, thinks Morgan.

'Well, now they say it in real life.' replies the man.

I've got to stop saying what I'm thinking! cries Morgan.

'That, too.'

'Thanks,' says Morgan, in those audible, ironic quote marks as he slips the phone inside his jacket.

'Am I right?' cries an excited voice from somewhere. A woman emerges from the back looking more like she's jumped from a more experimental back pages of Vogue circa 1997; all headscarf, Nike t-shirt and leggings. 'Is this your group?'

'There's customers waiting,' moans the coffee man.

'Fine, fine, I'm out of the way,' Morgan holds up his hands and shuffles along irritatedly, but there's no room 'cause the cafe is about three tables wide anyway. He's still in the way. 'Yep. We View Horizons Kindly.'

'Amaaaaaaaaaazing. That Replete reaper track, I got it stuck in my head.'

She has an odd way of talking- a little bit Czech, a little bit Australian, old-fashioned staccato.

'It's a, uh, banger, isn't it.' God, I sound like an idiot. Morgan looks to DeWitt. 'We should... talk about music, you know.'

'I have a boyfriend.'

'Oh, and I'm a... massive... gay,' he replies, blank-faced.

'Oh thank god for that.' she looks relieved. 'I mean, I was 99% sure by the way you talk, but like, you can never tell these days, can you.'

'I can't.'

'So is your band playing soon? I'd love to see them.'

'We're doing... the... you know, the festival that doesn't have a name, but the logo is shaped like a triangle.'

'KRK! festival?'

'I think it's pronounced BRAP! the organiser was telling me.'

'I think it's KRK.'

'Maybe.'

She laughs.

'Listen,' he says. 'I've never been in this shop before but your friend there...' he gestures at the counter, 'gave me this phone and said it was mine.'

'Oh, Jerry? I think he does that to everyone.'

DeWitt bounces onto the table.

'Hi...' he beams, holding an arm out to Mischa.

That night it gets colder and Morgan finds it hard to switch off.

He spends twenty minutes deciding to delete the bastarding celebrity vicar off of facebook. He contemplates going to the press and outing him to the good listeners of radio 4. Are they liberal or conservative? What was anyone, anymore?

The small, black, plastic phone from the coffee shop rings. An unknown number.

It rings again at 12.05. He doesn't pick it up but there's no voicemail to identify... He puts the phone on silent and begins to feel slightly uneasy....

After he's finished brushing his teeth and preparing for bed, Morgan checks the phone. Someone has rung the phone 50 times. Someone 'walks over his grave'; he shivers. His shaking fingers grip the phone and waits for them to call again, but nothing. His flatmates are asleep.

Slowly, watching the skewed shadows, he creeps downstairs into the house's breezy kitchen. Upturned plates and stacked dirty pans, the rattle and hum of a house at night. A tapping from in the living room.

'Esther?'

'AAAAIIIIIIIEEEE!!!!!!!'

She's on the sofa, screaming and turning round.

'It's me! Morgan.'

'Oh god. You scared the... living daylights out of me.' She's wearing a full outfit like she's just about to go out, or come back.

'Are you going for a walk?' he asks.

They stand on the edge of a bridge- not a real one, over water, but a fake one over some man-made underpass or strange bike route that nobody's ever used. The better bridges of London, Morgan thinks. The phone still hasn't rung.

'I think this is the first time I've ever walked at night with someone,' sighs Esther, stubbing out her cigarette. 'And it might be the last.'

'I suppose it loses the magic, doesn't it.'

'Yu-hum.'

Suddenly, the phone rings.

'Well, are you gonna answer it or what?' she asks.

He gives her a troubled look, and clears his throat.

'...Hello?'