When he woke his headache was every bit as bad as he thought it might be. He staggered to his bathroom and had a perfunctory wash, deciding to leave a shave until his hands were steadier. After putting on the coffee machine he went to the front door to check for mail.
A single white envelope lay on the mat. As he bent down, having to fight off a vomit reflex, he saw the red mark where he’d smeared blood the night before.
“Superstitious claptrap bollocks,” he whipered like a mantra as, without opening it, he tore the envelope into small pieces and shoved the remains deep into his trouser pocket. That made him feel strangely better. The feeling of general well-being lasted the space of two cigarettes. That’s when his phone rang.
“Dave?” Jane sounded like she’d been crying, her tone exactly the same as the day she’d told him she’d finally had enough.
What did I do this time?
It soon became apparent that this time was different.
“Did you get your envelope back?” she asked. There was something else in her voice too. Dave thought it might be fear. He wasn’t ready to face that.
“No,” he said. “And from what I can remember of last night, I don’t expect to either. It’s all a load of old...”
“Bollocks,” she finished. “Yes. You said. But something’s happened. Can you come round?”
“Will Jim be there or is he still at work?” He was dismayed to hear the whine and the hope in that question. If Jane heard it, she didn’t show it.
“It’s four o’ clock in the afternoon Dave,” she said with a sigh. “By the time you get here, Jim’ll be home. Maggie’s coming round too. We need to talk.”
She would say no more, beyond urging him to stay sober this time.