Surprisingly, Judas did not wake up with a hangover. In fact, he felt really good. He had had one of those night’s sleep where he had woken up in exactly the same position as when he had closed his eyes the night before. The flat was still and the light had not quite managed to find its way inside, and he had the rare pleasure of turning the alarm clock off before it kicked in. He rose and prepared his favourite working man’s breakfast: two fried eggs on marmite on toast, two sausages from the butcher on the high street, one rasher of bacon, a handful of grilled mushrooms and a vat of coffee. As mornings went, this was a five-star special.
He left his apartment building with a full stomach and a spring in his step. As he walked to the bus stop he tried to imagine the magnitude of the hang
