This wouldn’t do, of course. I detached and deep-breathed, as advised, and it did the trick. No A.6. No sweaty nightmare blankets, either, though. Just mustiness, carpet mustiness. I’d passed out, then. Only where? And who was being sick? Somebody was being sick. Was it me being sick? No, it was Ike being sick, poor old bastard. In his pyjamas, too. I seemed to be up on one elbow looking at him. He was being sick the wrong colour. He was lying on his side. It was all down the front of his pyjamas, and underneath him. My head was a long way away and icy cold. Wherever the hell it was, it was hurting. Then it returned, and we associated, and I said, ‘Oh, Christ,’ and tried to get up. ‘It’s all right,’ somebody said, clicking his tongue. ‘Stay still. You’ll be fine in a minute.’ ‘What the hell is happening?’ I said. My lips seemed to be numb, and I said it in Arabic, no doubt because he’d spoken Arabic, too. He didn’t say anything, just went on clicking. It was the little alleged assistant, and he had an ice-bag on my head.
