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filled
his mind, willing him to trip up on his fear of the conversational
lull, the resultant drivel filling in whatever blanks she still had
in his psychological profile.
    This was his
hell. Two years and three psychotherapists on and still there was
no end in sight. It was a racket. Who didn’t have a screw or two
loose?
    He wasn’t
there through choice but under orders; not Gray’s this time but
Rachel’s. She put up with a lot but demanded this in return; one
hour a week in the company of a shrink and his ghosts.
    It was a large office but
even Burke would concede it got crowded in here of a Wednesday
afternoon.
    “ They’re
back,” he said, cursing his own lack of self control and watching
as she acknowledged this information without giving anything
away.
     

 
4

    Daryll woke in a state of
confusion. He blinked at the midday sun streaming through the
yellowing net curtains and took a moment to assess the
situation.
    The pain surged into the
base of his skull as his stomach somersaulted in sympathy and his
mouth began to water. He would not throw up he assured himself. He
wouldn’t. He launched his slight frame across the room and plunged
headfirst through the bathroom door towards the pan. His stomach
emptied itself as the cranial pain was renewed once
more.
    Never get
high on your own supply; that was the old adage. No one saw fit to
mention the perils of getting wasted on cheap rum while trying to
deal with the tedium of attempting to peddle the shit
though.
    What a fucking mess. They
were a man down thanks to Leon going missing, probably having
thought better of the whole thing as they’d made naff all progress
so far.
    Stupid
fucking plan anyway. There was no way with this place. A – it was
too cold, B - the people seemed to have adjusted themselves
accordingly and let off the same vibe and C – when you did manage
to engage the muppets they had a few trust issues going on. There
was a bit of a prejudice element to it he reckoned. How precisely
was someone supposed to get a foothold in this place?
    All they
wanted was to be the local crack dealers but would anyone give them
a break? Hell no.
    A series of snorting and
snuffling sounds emerged from Gus’s mouth or nose. He couldn’t say
which. The great pile of lard lay face down on a mess of feather
filled rags that might once have passed for a mattress. He couldn’t
even breathe properly. Such a basic human function and he had to
make it sound like a pig was up to some serious truffle hunting on
the on the other side of the room.
    Crawling was the best
solution to his current malaise and its inherent mobility issues.
He slumped back onto the mattress knowing it would be a while
before he could move again without incurring the wrath of his head
but wary of the fact there was a limit to the length of time he
could stay still before his weak and feeble mind took over. Once
that happened the symptoms would be magnified further. Such was the
state of hangover play.
    This thought alone
brought the stomach churning on once more and once more he made
contact with porcelain. There was nothing left to give as it turned
out, save for a large amount of reflexive exertion. Was this what
hell would be like? Probably, although it would be a close run
contest between a perpetual hangover and just one weekend in this
place.
    It wasn’t the Brum. That
was for sure. It didn’t have the familiar haunts. There was no
comfort zone to stretch out in but he’d hoped that might mean a
lack of the same frustrations, no more glass ceiling to bounce his
head off. They had talked about this being the promised-land.
Stupid. That was back when it was all shiny and new. They still had
hope then, to some degree, thought they’d do it together, like The
Godfather Part 2 in the flashback sequences. They’d get rid of the
established market they said, get their own slice of the pie,
couldn’t be more than a few daft jocks and they were all pissed
most of the time.
    It had