There is a revolving light outside. The orange glow flashes across the room from left to right, chased by darkness. It must be an ambulance or a police car. But there’s no siren. Breakdown truck? Roadworks? It doesn’t really matter. But he can’t close the curtains because of the suffocating dark, and if he leaves them open the room is filled with this measured flashing. You can count to ten between each turn. On the bed it was going over him. Under the window he is sheltered. It’s 2.30. A long time till daylight. Reaching forward he pulls the pillow and duvet from the bed and curls around it, foetal under the window. He can’t remember when he last slept. He tries to imagine the children. But all he can see is Cara, crying; it’s an image from a dream, he was willing El to pick her up because he couldn’t reach but El raised her eyebrows as if he was stupid. He sits upright again. The people next door have stopped. That was the other thing that drove him from the bed.
