I wiped the come off my belly and squeezed the tissues into a ball, trying to shut them out.

The Temptations of St Jack.

Again the dream.

Again the dead woman.

Again the verdict and the sentence come.

Again, it was happening all over again.

I woke on my floor on my knees by my bed, hands together thanking Jesus Christ My Saviour that I was not the killer of my dreams, that he was alive and he forgave me, that I had not murdered her.

The letterbox rattled.

Children’s voices sang through the flap:

Junky Jack, Druggy Jack, Fuck You Jack Shitehead.

I couldn’t tell if it was morning or afternoon or whether they were just another gang of truants sent to stake my nerves out in the sun for the ants.

I rolled over and went back to Edwin Drood and waited for someone to come and take me a little bit away from all this.

The telephone was ringing again.

Someone to save my soul.

‘You OK? You know what time it is?’

Time? I didn’t even know what fucking year it was, but I nodded and said, ‘Couldn’t get out of bed.’

‘Right. Well, at least you’re here. Small mercies, etc’

You’d think I’d have missed it, the hustle/bustle/tussle etc of the office, the sounds and the smells, but I hated it, dreaded it. Hated and dreaded it like I’d hated and dreaded the corridors and classrooms of school, their sounds and their smells.

I was shaking.

‘Been drinking?’

‘About forty years.’

Bill Hadden smiled.

He knew I owed him, knew he was calling in his debts. Looking down at my hands, I couldn’t quite think why.

The prices we pay, the debts we incur.

And all on the never-never.

I looked up and said, ‘When did they find her?’

‘Yesterday morning.’

‘I’ve missed the press conference then?’