Tyler splashes cold water onto his face and rubs at his temples. He opens the door of the bathroom cabinet in search of help that isn’t there. Not so much as an aspirin. In the shower, he turns the water temperature down until it’s the colder side of lukewarm. The droplets of water evaporate against his overheated skin. He holds that position, face raised to the showerhead in supplication, cheeks radiating heat like the radioactive rods of a power station.

Oscar is gone. He can’t remember when exactly, just that he was here and now he’s not. He has an image of them dancing in slow time across the laminate flooring to some jazz tune. A favorite of Gerald’s, apparently. Why did that idea not seem creepy last night? There’s not much he can remember about the evening at all. Just the two of them dancing forlornly in the dark. And the fact that Oscar kept buying them drinks.

When he gets out of the shower his mobile is ringing. He grabs a towel and stumbles, stubbing his smallest toe hard against the shower tray and creating a new pain in his foot, a sharper, tighter version of the one arcing across his forehead. He makes it to the phone just as it rings off. He doesn’t recognize the number.

Having found no remedy in the bathroom, he turns to the kitchen, brewing up a thick black sludge that might just be classifiable as coffee. He waits for the drink to cool and then downs it in one. He makes it back to the bathroom just in time to vomit the concoction down the pan. He crouches there for a moment, the porcelain cool against his forehead, trying to work out how this has happened. But his cotton-clouded mind struggles to focus on anything. The ringing in his ears refuses to subside.

Ringing. The mobile again. He wrenches himself off the floor, wipes his mouth, and hurries back to the phone, the blood pumping sluggishly round his limbs as though he’s engaged in heavy exercise. The same number. Why did he not think to ring it back?

“DS Tyler?” It’s Paul Enfield. Another part of the evening slots into place.

“Yes, hello.”

“There’s been another one.”

Tyler feels his head beating in time to the rhythm of his thumping heart. “Where?”

This time the fire is in the city itself, not Castledene, but he doesn’t need to ask why Enfield thinks it’s relevant. As soon as he has the address he knows. He decides to walk, unsure if he’s fit to drive. It’s only a few minutes, and he’s hardly likely to get lost since he was there only yesterday. Perhaps he and Oscar even walked home this way last night. Right past the scene of the crime. Assuming they did walk; he can’t remember that either.

It’s still dark; the morning air, fresh and cool, helps clear away some of the fog in his head.