18
Jack thought he probably knew every blob and swirl of the artex ceiling in his bedroom. He’d spent many a night lying, eyes open, staring at it. Occasionally, he’d make out patterns. One patch might look like a person’s face in profile if he squinted the right way. Another might make out a fat bloke doing a disco dance.
When he couldn’t sleep, there was very little he could do. Reading didn’t help. If the book was good it’d keep him awake even longer, and if it was rubbish his brain would wander off onto other things and he’d have to go back and read the same page seven or eight times over.
His mobile phone vibrated on the bedside table for the umpteenth time that night. This time, he decided to check it. It wasn’t as if he was going to get much sleep anyway.
There were four emails
