Exhausted. Had slept badly the previous night, then again when he’d tried to catch up on the plane, and on the train down from Paddington. When he had slept, he’d dreamt about Durrant, and when he’d awoken, he’d wondered if the dreams had all been of his own mind, the usual fervour of a vivid imagination at rest, or whether Durrant, the dead Durrant, was now also inside his head.Durrant was dead. If he could sit on the edge of Jericho’s bed and sit at his kitchen table, then why wouldn’t he be able to walk unhindered into his dreams? After trying to sleep on the train, and quickly abandoning the attempt, he’d put a call through to Haynes and they had filled each other in on the weekend. For some reason Haynes had felt his tale of the secret society was even more far-fetched when telling it to Jericho than when he’d told it to Dylan. Perhaps it was just distance. The previous day the story had still been fresh, still been dusted with Leighton’s enthusiasm and credulity.
