yhishead,bladesdancinganurgentminuetasiftheyhadbeentryingtowakehimforsometime.Apanelofwarmsunshinecrossedhisbody.Unabletomoveforseveralseconds,hewipedtheoil-smeareddialofhiswatch.Itwaseighttwenty-fivea.m.Helaysprawledstifflyacrossthebackseatofthecar.Themotorwayembankmentswerehiddenfromhim,butasteadydrumming,asthreateningandyetinsomewayasreassuringasthesoundtrackofafamiliarnightmare,remindedhimwherehewas.Themorningrush-hourwasunderway,thousandsofvehiclespouringbackintocentralLondon.Hornssoundedabovethegutturalroarofdieselenginesandtheunbrokenboomofcarspassingthroughtheoverpasstunnel.Thewinebottlelayunderhisrightarm,itsbrokenneckcuttingintohiselbow.Maitlandsatup,rememberingtheanaesthesiawhichthewinehadbroughthim.Hecouldrememberaswell,likeadegradedmemoryhidingitselfinthebackofhismind,thebrief
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