It was barely afternoon, but I felt I'd done enough work for one day. Hell, most people didn't do this much in a lifetime. Or perhaps they did, it was a long time since I was around "most people".

I dusted myself off and walked through the dirty city streets.

In the distance, the sunlight bounced off the shiny glass and chrome monuments erected to the gods of publishing.

That one square mile in the city centre, where crime and grime are kept clean off the streets. Saving it all for the boardrooms, no doubt.

The idea of such monuments is one of aspiration, an ostentatious display of wealth and power, but with the sun flashing in my eyes, I could only think of it as a warning. A giant lighthouse warning passing ships to avoid the rocks, whilst the sirens sung their hypnotising hymns, looking to bring sailors, desperate and lonely after months or years away from the touch of a good woman, or better yet a bad one, to their doom. Only in this case, it wasn't sailors, but writers. But, then again, what's the difference?

The going was slow and I thought about stopping for a little pick-me-up, but I knew if I stopped I was going to need someone to pick me up.

On a street corner, I saw a hobo, so strung out he wasn't even watching his spare change cup.

Hell, I could have taken the whole thing and the poor bastard wouldn't have noticed. Instead, I leaned over and dropped what I had in coins in the cup. He didn't even flinch.

Then I saw it. He was in the middle of Crime and Punishment, hooked on pure Russian. Poor bastard will never see the world the same again.

After what felt like an age, I got back home. I didn't fancy climbing three flights of steps after what felt like going seven rounds with the heavyweight champ of the world, but I fancied running into the landlady even less.

Inside, my place look like a bomb had hit it. Anyone else would have thought the places had been ransacked, but I knew better. This was just how I lived.

I locked the front door and made my way to the bathroom, to wash myself in the sink.

The mirror told me in no uncertain terms, I wasn't getting any better with age, and time sure as shit wasn't healing these wounds.

I stripped off my jacket, then tie and shirt, dropping them on the floor. My undershirt was stained with all sorts of bodily fluids, but I didn't have it in me to take it off. Instead, I washed around it the best I could. A sink bath can't beat the real thing, but it'll do in a pinch.

Sufficiently clean, I lowered myself onto the bed, slipped off my shoes, socks, and trousers, and got in.

I was no closer to knowing what happened to Red's brother, nor what the deal with The Bookie was. For all I knew this might the last chance I had to deal with one or both of them.

But I was in no condition to deal with anyone right now, so whatever was going on, it would have to wait.

This sort of mystery was the sort of thing that used to keep me up for days, but the second my head hit the pillow, I was out like a light.