Jack Bishop, meet James Martin

Jack inclined his head politely, and proceeded past the Dr into the foyer. Normally, he would have paid more attention to his surroundings, but on this occasion he was too lost in his own thoughts - and, in ever-increasing bursts - those of James Martin to give them much heed.

"Thank you, Dr, for agreeing to see me at such short notice. Normally I would have taken my time over this, but as I said on the phone, I'm worried about the health of James Martin."

In truth, Jack was still uneasy about this meeting - that was putting it lightly - but now that he had crossed the threshold both literally and metaphorically, he felt...weightless, like he had made the jump, and now had simply to wait and see where he would land.

Jack indicated with one of those marvelously over-complicated, yet completely silent, gestures that indicated that he wished to leave his shoes on, and then followed the Dr into the living room.

After taking a second to decide, Jack decided upon a comfy-looking armchair located towards the corner of the room. It felt safer somehow; the high sides made him feel secure, he supposed.

"I don't suppose you have any standard tea, do you? Iced has never really done it for me to be honest. A sandwich would be lovely, though."

Jack missed the UK, sitting and sipping tea with his wife while the children played was a standard part of life, and while the intense caffeine kick of coffee was occasionally a pleasant indulgence, he much preferred the more gentle experience of tea. Heaven knew he needed relaxation now; with a start, he realised that he was already gripping the sides of the armchair with such force that the soft material was creasing.

It always took Jack a moment to remember the difference between the way that tea was talked about on this side of the pond. The first time he'd ever been asked what kind of tea he'd wanted, he had simply answered 'just a dash of milk, no sugar', and then wondered why the waitress looked so dumbfounded. Back home, tea was tea, PG tips or (if you felt a bit daring), Earl Grey with lemon.

"I guess you'd call it black tea, caffeinated, with a tiny dash of milk, and no sugar, please," replied Jack, happily losing himself for a moment in the formality and familiarity of the scene, "thank you very much."

As the Dr went out to prepare the tea, Jack felt the incessant nagging in the back of his head start again, more insistent now.

Take off the ring.

Summoning all of his mental strength, he pushed it away. Whatever this strange phenomenon was, it could wait until he had solved the mystery of James Martin. He sighed. He hated not having proper control over his gift.

"I hope that passes the test."

Accepting the cup with a murmur of thanks, Jack lifted it to just below the level of his lips and breathed in. Ah, there it was, the comfortingly familiar smell of tea, real tea. The aroma alone brought memories flooding back to him of home, of long Sundays in with the children, depending on tea's gentle caffeine kick to keep up with them. For some reason, he felt a tear start to well up in the corner of his eye, and he found himself imagining what it would be like to lose Ellen, Josh and Livvy. Shaking his head slightly, he brought the cup to his lips. It didn't bear thinking about.

The instant the beverage touched his tongue, he knew something was wrong. Every one of his taste-buds screamed out in a cacophony of disagreement; he almost spat the liquid back out.

You don't like tea.

His skin prickled with a thrill of eerie electricity at the words in his head. The same voice, the same tone of urgent pleading. Forcing himself to swallow the mouthful of putrid leaf-water, he looked up at the Dr.

Sean Neville was a telepath, there was no point pretend that any of this hadn't just happened. Jack's ears were filled with a great wailing - he almost fancied it was that of his wife and children - as he whispered, barely audibly, in a voice filled with shadows of doubt and fear,

"I don't like tea."

"I...I don't..."

Jack didn't know what to say. His whole body trembled as he looked up at the telepath, an insipid cocktail of fear and pleading in his eyes. He had no idea why he would forget that he didn't like coffee, it had been like the feeling he'd had when he'd fallen into the lake. That seemed like a lifetime ago now.

His head felt like it was swirling, a multitude of thoughts and emotions crashing around; too much for one head to hold. Through the tumultuous roar, Jack dimly made out a name. In a voice that cracked and choked:

"James Martin."

Jack leaned forward on the chair, realising dimly through the maelstrom of emotion that sweat was pouring from every gland on his body; it felt like he was drowning. He felt, rather than saw, the Dr come round next to him as if to brace him, and he swayed again.

He was scared, more scared than he had ever been in his life, and he had no idea why. For some reason, he kept thinking of his wife and children; it was as if he was clinging to them, as if the mere memory of them alone would keep him afloat.

With a soft movement, Jack felt the psychiatrist's arm upon his, and the room faded. Was this James Martin revealing himself again?

A man was on the floor ahead of him, lying spreadeagled amongst a glittering ocean of broken glass. Hurrying up, the person whose eyes Jack was seeing through came to the mans side and lifted him gently.

"O-okay," he spluttered; he sounded hurt, "I'm sorry."

Jack could feel the rush of emotions overpowering his host; fear, uncertainty, regret, but an underlying, overwhelming resolve to get this done. He felt his lips move.

"I know."

Back with the psychiatrist, Jack realised he had sunk backwards into the chair.

"What about him?"

It took him a second to figure out whom it was that Dr Neville was talking about, such was his continued disorientation after the vision. Jack fumbled clumsily around for the right words to try and express what he was thinking, just as he was unknowingly fumbling around with the ring on his finger.

"I think he's close, and...and something's happening to him; there's a man, it looks like he's fallen from a window or...or...and something bad, something terrible has happened. I can't tell what, but it's serious; he must be close, I felt it all so strongly, I could even feel his emotions and exact thought processes, but I couldn't tell the other man's name," Jack still felt like he was drifting, he could barely string a sentence together, in his right hand, the ring teetered desperately on the tip of his finger; his family were screaming in his head again, "he is...I am...we are...I can't think, there's too many voices, too many memories...my head can't hold them all."

Suddenly, Jack heard that same voice in his head, but this time it was directed outwards.

Look inside my head, Dr Neville.