‘But I could’ve been asleep for that extra time, yeah? If you hadn’t stopped the car to do your phone call. The whole point was to get maximum sleep, yeah? And I would still be asleep if we’d not stopped.’

‘I know, and I do apologize, it’s just—’

‘But instead, I’m in a situation where I’m sitting here awake. Which isn’t being asleep.’

‘Yeah. As I say, apologies.’ Karl forced the words out, marvelling at this arsehole who was taking the trouble to explain what sleep was. His teeth were gritted so tight it felt like one row would take the other row out altogether, like dodgems trying to force each other off the rink. ‘We’ll get you there ASAP, all right. I’m just going into the services now for two minutes, and then—’

‘Are you kidding me, mate?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’ve got to get to Newcastle, pal,’ said the DJ. As if there’d been any doubt about that; as if the preceding hours, the two hundred-odd miles might have just been a spin they had taken for fun. ‘I want to get there and get into the hotel, be able to properly chill.’

To properly chill, thought Karl, after all this stressful sleeping. Jesus Christ. This geezer was too much.

‘I’m just going to run in to the bathroom, all right, so …’

‘Can you not wait?’

Karl stared at the man in the back of his car. Around six foot tall, double-breasted Paul Smith coat (about six hundred quid, Karl reckoned); ridiculous but somehow desirable baseball-cap thing he’d taken off to sleep (at least a hundred quid, probably); superior-quality bling, unshowy as this stuff went (couldn’t even guess the price of that gear). This man who seemed to be under the impression that he had hired, not just the car and driver, but the use of Karl as some sort of robot servant.