Jack opened his eyes and looked up to see the familiar yellow stain on the ceiling above him. He wasn’t sure how he’d got here, but he was lying on the settee in the living room of his flat. He ran his tongue around his mouth. It felt like someone had taken sandpaper to it. A near empty glass of water and an open box of paracetamol were sitting on the coffee table. He touched his hand gingerly to the back of his head and felt a lump the size of an egg. He had a vague memory of cracking it against something hard. He sat up cautiously, his head banging fit to burst. The bowl from the kitchen sink was lying on the floor next to the sofa. A sudden whiff of its contents made him scramble over the end of the sofa and dive for the toilet.

He was still kneeling in front of it with his head down the pan when the doorbell went. He tried to ignore it, but they weren’t giving up. He hauled himself to his feet and turned on the cold tap, splashing his face with water, then shoving his mouth under it and gratefully gulping down the cooling liquid. The bell rang again.

‘Keep your hair on.’ He grabbed a towel, rubbing it across his mouth before dragging his unwilling carcass back into the living room.

He opened the front door just as his visitor started hammering on the other side.

They stopped mid-knock. ‘Hello, Jack.’

‘What do you want?’

‘You’ve changed your tune. You were the one who wanted to talk to me last time, remember? Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

Jack gestured for his visitor to sit. ‘Does this mean you’ve been thinking about what I said?’

‘You could say that.’

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe his luck really was changing. ‘Look, I don’t know about you, but I could murder a tea.’

‘Not for me. But you go ahead. I can see why you’d be in need of one.’ The visitor pointed towards the bowl. ‘You never could hold your drink.’

Ignoring the comment, Jack made his way into the kitchen. As much as he welcomed the change of mind, he could do without the crap that went with it. He flicked on the kettle, grabbed a mug from the worktop and swilled it out under the tap. However shit he might feel right now, he needed to get his head together. He had to make sure he played this right – it might be his only chance. He dredged his memory. What exactly had he said last time they’d met? He stirred the tea bag, trying to make some sort of order of his thoughts.