Small men were hammering their tiny fists from somewhere deep in his skull, and the bedroom walls flexed like bamboo. He sat up carefully, holding his head in case it slid off. The light outside looked awfully bright through his curtains. He stripped off the rented clothes and left them in a heap in the corner of the room. He’d work out what to do with them later. Trudging to the bathroom, he stood under the shower until the thin stream of water ran cold. It helped. A bit. Shivering, he staggered back to his room and realised that somewhere, his phone was ringing. He gagged as he bent over to find it, then persuaded his body it was safe to move, as long as he went slowly. By the time he got to the phone it had switched to messages. Frowning, he saw that there were 13 missed calls from Elle and a text from Julie in the French department. The evening began to come back in flashes of gaudy technicolour. He shut his eyes, trying to push out the image of Elle in the arms of her boss, but the picture kept bobbing back every time he tried to think of something else.
