It was already past eleven o'clock. The banging on his door drummed into his head. If it had not been for the sound Malachy would have slept on. He dragged himself off the bed. It had been a sleep he had not known for months, for a year. No dreams and no nightmares. No images squirming in his mind. The banging persisted. He shouted out that he was coming, but his voice was faint from a dried-out throat and the banging did not stop. He pulled on his trousers that he had dumped last night on the carpet when he had fallen, collapsed, on to the bed. 'Yes, I'm coming. For God's sake, I'm coming!' Out of the bedroom, he walked past the table. There was the mat on which he put his plate, the little plastic containers for salt and pepper, a mug he'd left there from which he'd drunk instant coffee - and the sheet of paper. He snatched it up and buried it in his pocket. He went towards the door. Last night, back from the parking bays under the block, he had read, again and again, what had been passed to him through the car's window.
