They were some of the most chilling words I’d ever heard. There were stories about what happened to people who took such offers up. Terrible stories. Stories that would chill the bones. But my bones were already chilled from the cold wind racing through my drawing room and Francois Devine did have an honest, open, blubbery face so I made a decision. I closed my eyes and trusted him.

"Very well" I said in total self-imposed darkness.

"Wheel it in, lads" called Francois Devine. I heard something moving outside the hole and almost immediately the icy wind stopped.

"What trickery is this?" I asked.

"Open your eyes" said a beaming Francois Devine.

All I saw was something blocking the hole. It was non-descript in every way and so I won’t waste my time or yours by attempting to describe it.

"It’s another tarpaulin" I said flatly. "Is this one blue? Or perchance green? Are you going to attempt modern computer generated matting effects? Why not go whole hog and try to pull off a glass shot. In reverse obviously."

"Dennis Brent, Dennis Brent, Dennis Brent" he said factually. "This is not some modern state of the art computer generated nonsense. This is old school illusion."

"Explain."

"Well, you know how I secretly courted the friendship of Raymond Cusick while you were courting the friendship of Mark Ayres?"

"No – I didn’t know that" I said.

"Ah yes – it was a secret. I should’ve guessed. Anyway, I was rather more successful courting Raymond Cusick than you were with Mark Ayres. Raymond certainly never ran screaming from my boudoir alleging all sorts of unmentionables as I seem to recall Mark doing."

"A breakdown in communication, nothing more I assure you."

"Anyway, Raymond owed me a favour for reasons I won’t go into and has produced a simply marvellous expanded photographic backdrop for you. It is as convincing an exterior wall of Brent Towers as you’ll ever see. I should say it is better than Marinus. Better even than Skaro. You literally cannot tell where Brent Towers ends and the photographic blow-up begins. It is quite marvellous. I haven’t been this excited by a piece of scenery since I bought my first roundel back in ’86."

"I remember you got quite emotional" I mused.

"I did, Dennis Brent, I got quite emotional. That was the best six hundred pounds I spent in ’86."

"I of course went the extra yard and bought two roundels for a thousand pounds" I boasted.

"Yes you did – the finest moment of ’86 quickly became the sourest when I realised that someone – mentioning no names – had removed all but one of the cheques from my cheque book so I was only able to buy one item from the auction."

"I blamed Jeremy Bentham then and I still blame him today" I said convincingly.

"I’ve always had my doubts…" he said through clenched eyes. I decided to change the subject.

"I say – this photographic blow-up is most splendid thinking. An idea I might’ve come up with myself if I had done so" I beamed. "First class, Francois Devine, first class."

"Thank you, Dennis Brent."

"May I go and see the photographic blow-up in all its convincing glory?"

"My men are ensuring it is lit correctly and it should be available any minute now."

We waited in silence which men did things with lights. I tried to strike up a fascinating conversation about some pen marks I found on a script of Philip Martin’s and whether they represented a hitherto unsuspected piece of script editing by Eric Saward but he wasn’t interested. His mind was elsewhere though whether it was concentrated on my immediate need for security or his own future hedonism I couldn’t say. Eventually he got word via a walkie-talkie that everything was set up.

"Right, Dennis Brent, I think we should be off."

"Lead the way, Francois Devine" I replied.

"There’s just one small, slight, minor detail" he said. I thought there would be.

"Is the blindfold really necessary?" I asked as Francois Devine lead me by the arm.

"Oh yes – the men insisted on it."

I was going to reply but I accidentally smashed my face into the door frame.

"Really? I wonder why they did that?" I asked when my mouth had settled down.

"I can’t imagine" said Francois Devine. He may have said more but I accidentally walked into a tree and was out of commission for a moment.

"It must be some kind of proletarian sense of humour" I mused shortly before falling down a hole.

"I suppose so. We will never understand their kind" agreed Francois Devine as he pulled me from the hole. I brushed myself down and continued round the outside of my house. Grounds I thought I knew like the back of my hand but apparently I hadn’t remembered the location of all the bear traps.

"Accidents will happen" said Francois Devine.

Two lamp posts, one well, a patch of quick sand and a carelessly positioned rake later I was in the brightly lit area with Raymond Cusick’s life saving photographic blow-up of an unblemished Brent Towers. Or at least I assumed I was.

"Can I take this blindfold off now?" I asked.

"Allow me" said one of the workers. He was a clumsy man and only succeeded in getting the blindfold tangled round my neck. I hope he hadn’t done anything technical in Francois Devine’s operation. The man was clearly incompetent and clumsy.

Francois Devine snipped the blindfold from my throat and gave me back my glasses in return for a donation of five pounds.

"What do you think?" he asked like a proud father.

"It is good. It is detailed, it is almost exactly the right proportions but I’m not sure it will convince anyone."

"It will" he protested.

"It won’t" I replied.

"Oh" he continued, my argument having somehow convinced him without trying, "but we are too close to it. If we were some distance away it would look seamless" he boasted.

"How far away would you suggest?" I asked cynically.

"Ten… twenty… perhaps fifty yards?"

"Right. So from fifty yards away you wouldn’t spot that the photographic blow-up is in black and white?"