The decorators had been out of Augustin Pascal's flat for nearly a week now, but they'd left their distinctive smell behind, that sour cocktail of paint and solvent. It was most noticeable at this time of the morning, with the unwelcome intrusion of another dawn, the way it combined with his low-wattage acid hangover and the mocking empty space on the mattress beside him. Two weeks he'd had this damned bed, and still untested. Something had gone seriously wrong in his life.
A pounding on his front door. His bastard neighbours were always complaining. He turned onto his side, muffled his ear with his pillow, waited for them to fuck off. God, but he felt tired. His expensive new bed and mattress, his fine linen, his duck-down pillows. He couldn't remember ever sleeping so badly or feeling such relentless fatigue.
The pounding continued. With a cry of exasperation, he pushed himself to his feet, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, went to open his door. 'What the fuck…?' he scowled when he saw Knox. But then he noticed his friend's cuts and bruises. 'Jesus! What the hell happened?'
'Car crash,' slurred Knox. 'Can't remember.'
Augustin looked at him in horror, turned and strode into his bedroom for his jacket. 'I'm taking you to hospital.'
'No,' said Knox. 'Not safe. A man. He put a pillow over my face.'
'What? Who?'
'Don't know. Too dark.'
'I'm calling the police.'
'No! No police. No doctors. Please. Find out what's going on.'
Augustin shrugged and helped Knox to his sofa, then went to his kitchen, poured them each a glass of water, swallowed his own in one. 'Okay,' he said, wiping his mouth. 'From the beginning. A car crash. Where?'
Knox shook his head. 'Can't remember. Last thing I remember was coffee with you.'
'But that was the day before yesterday!' protested Augustin. 'Do you have any receipts? Any way to work out your movements?'
'No.'
'How about your mobile? See who you've called.'
Knox patted his pockets expressively. 'Lost.'
'Email, then.' He helped Knox to his breakfast table, set up his laptop, dialled up a connection. Knox logged into his account, found incoming from Gaille. Hi Daniel, I've attached your Therapeutae photos, the ones I could make anything of, at least. The others were too badly lit or blurred for the short time I had, but I'll keep working. Where did you take them? Are you up to no good again? I'm dying to hear. I'm on taxi-duty in Amarna today but I'll call tonight.
I miss you too.
All my love, Gaille. Augustin's heart thumped as he read the message; he felt the blood draining from his face. 'Everything okay?' asked Knox, looking curiously at him.
'Therapeutae photos?' said Augustin. 'Where the hell did you take Therapeutae photos?'
'How should I know?' retorted Knox. 'Concussion, remember?'
Augustin nodded. 'Then download these damned photos, will you? This is getting interesting.'