Brad couldn’t recall how he’d got home. He woke up the next morning with a head that felt as though it had been the recipient of several powerful blows. When he stood, he felt nauseous, and when he attempted to walk, the room swayed.
With sheer willpower he made it to the toilet to vomit and relieve himself, realising there was no way he could go to work. He hated calling in sick, and rarely did it. He knew what a burden it would put on his colleagues, and how disappointing it would be for the clients who would have to be re-booked. But in his condition, he had no choice. He called Lorraine and got the day off.
Most of it he spent in bed, asleep, then, at around three o’clock, his mobile rang.
“How are you feeling?”
It was Enzo.
“Like my head’s been run over by a bus. Actually, I’m fe
