There was a cheap Travelodge across the bridge from Poplar station. Alex headed for it, diverting on the way to pick up a carrier bag of essentials from a late-night supermarket. To his disappointment, the dazed-looking hotel receptionist didn’t spare him a second glance. She barely looked at him as she took his credit card, billed him for two nights, and droned through the here-is-your-room-card spiel. (On his way over he’d obsessively concocted a cover story concerning a lost checked bag, a mugger, and a rainy night in Paris—entirely for nothing, as it transpired.) “Thanks,” he mumbled, and made a dash for the lift, trying not to think about the way the arteries in her throat throbbed so seductively.

The hotel room was exactly what he’d expected: a minimal salaryman/family on a budget dormitory, with the basic fittings and no extras. First he hung the Do Not Disturb sign out, then for good measure he reinforced it with an improvised door wedge—a free newspaper he’d grabbed on the way in. The curtains gave him some cause for concern, but he’d thought to buy a roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors. Wobbling and unsteady, he knelt on the dresser to tape around the gaps. They’re going to think I’m mad, he thought, and tittered to himself. Locked in a safe space with a bag of munchies and a bathroom, he ought to be okay—as long as he didn’t wig out further before sunset tomorrow. Have I lost it already? he wondered.

It was barely ten o’clock. The question of what he was going to do for the next twenty-two hours was only just beginning to sink in. He lay on the bed fully clothed, and stared at the bone-white ceiling until dragons and Möbius gears began to uncoil in the corner of his vision. If I’m not nuts already I’m going to be nuts by the time I . . .

He snatched up his phone. The face recognition unlock worked and he could see himself in the phone camera’s display: that ought to tell him something if he wasn’t so overwrought. He dialed a work contact. As he’d expected, it rang through to voice mail. Good. “Uh, Mhari? It’s Alex. Listen, I’m not well. Uh, actually, spouting at both ends. Really, it’s a rotavirus or something. I’ll try to make it in tomorrow morning, but if I don’t, it’s because I’m pebble-dashing the—uh oh!” He forced a nauseated gurgle (which came disturbingly easily) and killed the call. Ass: covered. Now to sleep, and see if he could see himself in the bathroom mirror in the morning or something.

Sleep, of course, didn’t come easy, but there were movies on demand.

Lots of movies.

Movies about Lesbian Vampire Hunters and Blood-Sucking Fiends.