Friday was just a dull throb. Saturday ached and nagged like a rotten tooth. But Sunday was bone-crunching agony. The rest of the days and nights were soldered tightly shut until my fever finally erupted.
My burning eyes ripped open.
I was strapped to a stinking bed in the back room of Duffy’s Bar, the sleaziest dive in The City – no mean feat when you’re talking about that neon-soaked, blood-spattered hellhole that I called home. The freezing cold room was lit muddy brown. The wisps of a Kip Tyler song drifted in from the bar. The dirty twang of the guitar reverberated through my bones. I started to laugh when I recalled the title but the pain, like the kick in the eye from a stiletto heel, sharply turned everything black.
Cherchez la femme fatale, of course.
* * *
Unlike most of the
