"Boris is on detached duty with the Dustbin this year. Here, take this. How about a toast? Confusion to the enemy!"

I raise my glass. "What enemy?"

He shrugs: "IT, Human Resources, the grim march of time—whoever you want, really."

"I'll drink to that!" says Pinky, and I nod.

It's going to be a long evening, but it was going to be a long evening anyway and at least this way I don't get to spend it brooding on my own.

THE NEXT MORNING, I AWAKEN TO FIND THAT MY MOUTH TASTES as if a rat used it for a bed and breakfast, and Mo still isn't here. I roll over, reaching across her side of the bed. Empty. It's early but I yawn and sit up, then visit the bathroom to change the rat's bed linen before stumbling downstairs. The kitchen sink is full of empty bottles, and someone left a JesusPhone on the kitchen table, plugged into my laptop—

Oh. Shit. It wasn't a dream, then.

I switch the kettle on and run a comb through my hair, wondering if I can take the bloody thing back. I haven't activated it, have I—oh.

There's a handwritten note next to it. I read it with a sinking heart: HI BOB HOPE YOU LIKE THE EASTER EGGS BRAINS.

No, I can't take it back. Not until I find out what Brains did to it. I rack my memories for any hint of details, but it's all a bit of a blur. I remember him saying something about evaluation work. Jesus, he could have put anything on it. Not that Brains would install classified experimental work-related software on an agent's personal mobile phone, oh no, but if he thought it had been issued to me by work that would be another matter entirely.

I turn the radio on just as the kettle rises to a rattling, rolling boil and shuts off. I pull the cafetiere out of the cupboard and spoon coffee into it, pour water and stare at it, as if that'll make it brew faster.

It is just occurring to me that today is a Thursday and I am not expected to—no, scratch that, I am expected not to—go into the office today, and I haven't the foggiest idea what to do with myself. It's not like a holiday, meticulously planned fun'n'frolics on a beach with Mo, or even a weekend of vegging out in front of the TV at home. It feels more like I'm under house arrest. Sick leave is no fun at all when you're doing it on instructions from management.