He was back at work at 12.30 p.m., after having got home just before ten that morning and dropped like a block of lead into bed. He had been sensible enough to set his alarm, and as soon as he had done that and snuggled down into bed, alone, and assumed his number one sleeping position – on his right side, left leg drawn up, hands clasped together under his pillow – he fell asleep instantly. When the alarm clock woke him he felt more drained than ever, could easily have turned over and gone back to sleep. He dragged himself unwillingly into the shower, trying to keep the water from swilling away the butterfly strips that Alison had applied to his head wound, yet wanting the powerful hot water jets to massage life back into his dead face. His reflected image in the shaving mirror almost made him want to smash the glass with his fist. Then he realized he probably didn’t look much worse than normal – an unedifying insight. He looked old and haggard. His eyes were heavily bagged, bloodshot and red raw in the corners.
