It was morning again. Another day for Harry to face.
It was cold and wet and the revelry and hubbub of Soho had dissipated with the arrival of dawn.
After the phone call Harry had not been able to get back to sleep; thirty-six hours without any sleep.
He lay back on the bed, soaked in perspiration, still dressed in the same clothes from the previous day. He watched the grey light creep up over the buildings. His brain was a quagmire of chaotic noise and buzzing. Nothing he could do would allow him any relief. His head was spinning and he wanted to vomit.
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