His voice was distorted by the speaker system, like the bit on that single by Cher where she sounds like she’s singing down a drainpipe. What was it called? Another blank one. I lifted my head. The pillow was damp. Jesus. No aircon in the university guesthouse but the room was pretty cool. My tongue felt like last night’s pit latrine. I couldn’t remember much about how we’d got home, just the taxi lurching over potholes and someone spewing out of the back window. McKenzie. My clothes were crumpled on the floor like a man hunched into a foetal position. They looked how I felt. I took a swig from the bottle of water beside the bed and dozed off again. When I woke, my head was banging. I searched for my watch, but I was still wearing it. The hands glowed in the light that filtered through the mosquito netting. Eight-thirty. Fucking hell! This was supposed to be a rest day. Saturday morning in Kampala. I wondered what Helen and the girls would be doing. It was still early in the UK.
