“Hey, what’s up with you? What the hell is up with you?” retorted not a voice but an unholy bellow.

He took one more deep breath and tried to spit. Then felt his tongue had swollen or no longer belonged to him.

“Nothing really, Chief, a spot of migraine. Or high blood pressure, I’m…”

“Hey, Mario, don’t try that line again. I’m the one with the high blood pressure, and don’t keep calling me Chief. What’s up?”

“What I said, Chief, a spot of headache.”

“So you’ve woken up after the party, I suppose? Well, get this: your holidays are over.”

Not even daring to contemplate such a thing, he opened his eyes. As he’d imagined, the sunlight was flooding in through the big windows, and everything around him was bright and warm. Perhaps the cold had retreated outside and it might be a beautiful morning, but he felt like crying or something of that nature.

“No, Boss, hell, don’t do that to me. It’s my weekend. That’s what you said. You forgotten?”

“It was your weekend, my boy, it was. No one pressganged you into the police.”

“But, Boss, why does it have to be me? You’ve got loads of people,” he protested as he tried to sit up. The errant weight of his brain crashed against his forehead, and he had to close his eyes again. The nausea in his gut surged up; his bladder felt about to burst. He gritted his teeth and groped after the cigarettes on his bedside table.

“Hey, Mario, I don’t intend putting it to a vote. Do you know why it’s your turn? Because that’s what I damn well want. So shake a leg: get out of bed.”

“You’re not joking, are you?”

“Mario, that’s enough… I’m already at work, get me?” the voice warned, and Mario understood he was really at work. “Listen: on Thursday they informed us that a chief executive in the Ministry for Industry had disappeared, you hearing me?”