He could feel himself flush from head to toe. He’d never even considered the fact that since Stephen’s death Clare had been struggling financially.

Once they were out of earshot of Clare, he turned to face Margaret and took her hand in his. ‘Don’t worry, Margaret. I’ll look after her.’

‘You just see you do, Dr Barbrook.’

CHAPTER FIVE

The wall was moving. At least that’s what it felt like to Jack Tyler as he slithered down it. He hit the pavement with a bump and sat, legs splayed out across the alleyway, head lolling forward against his chest.

He hadn’t been as wrecked as this in he couldn’t remember how long. But right at the moment he couldn’t remember much. It had been a good night. That much he knew. He’d bumped into an old mate who’d stood him a few pints. The only stroke of luck he’d had in a very long time.

He let out a belch. There was no way he was going to be sick. He always felt like shit the next day when he threw up. With a huge force of will he lifted his head up, gulped in air and hiccupped. And in so doing cracked the back of his skull against the solid Victorian brickwork behind him.

Lifting his hand to rub the back of his head, he succeeded only in grazing his knuckles on the masonry. ‘Shit.’

He slumped down, closing his eyes, resigning himself to a night sleeping it off in the alley. As he drifted towards semi-consciousness he was vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps approaching. The adrenalin surge was enough to shoot him bolt upright and, bracing himself against the wall, he managed to clamber into a standing position.

Peering at the half-hidden figure in the shadow cast by the street lamp, he brandished the bottle of WKD he’d been clutching, splattering his trainers with the last dregs of its contents in the process. ‘You can keep your hands off my wallet, you bassshtard …’

‘No need for that, Jack.’

The voice was familiar. Who was it? The harder he tried to squeeze his eyeballs into focus, the blurrier the figure became. Mesmerised by the hypnotic motion of his own shadow swaying back and forth in the phosphorescent glow of the street light he tried, without success, to steady himself. Who did that voice belong to?

The figure lunged towards him. But before he could do anything he felt an arm being slipped around his waist, then his own arm being lifted upwards and draped around a pair of bony shoulders. His every instinct was to resist, but his head was spinning and it was all he could do to stop himself from throwing up.

‘Come on, my ol’ lover, you’re in a right state. Let’s get you home.’