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ON THE DAY California tumbled into the sea, Hoops McCann slept fitfully. In his dream, brightly coloured molecules quivered in a semi-rigid matrix like glossy candies in a jar. What remained of humankind, like a hoard of unruly schoolchildren, had seemed hell-bent on tearing this toothpick-and-candy construction apart. He woke bathed in sweat; ears ringing and his heart pounding like a disgruntled repo-man at his ribs. His head throbbed, his gums bled and his mouth felt dry as the hotel blanket. He was weak and coated by an abstruse dullness. He didn’t understand why; he hadn’t felt this way since Miami. Tuesday’s startled face as the agents pounced... He found a crumpled sachet in his sponge bag — his last dose of Beecham’s Remorse: For the morning after. With glucose and paracetamol. Fast headache relief. Gently settles stomach. If symptoms persist for more than three days, change your bartender. He tore one end off the sachet, poured the yellowish crystals into a glass of mini-bar water and gulped down the fizzing life-saver. Outside, snow streaked like ticker-tape into the glow from the rose-tinted Rhodolux street lamps as a lone figure in trilby and crumpled Macintosh trudged by, footfalls echoing into embracing darkness. The perspective was curious from above, foreshortening the man and communicating sadness; like an old painting. There was only one place to be at times like these: a bar where drinks came neither ready-mixed nor aglow with artificial colours. Where a man could drink something that would hurt him for the right reasons. He dressed quickly and left, intuitively leaving the bathroom light on. The Quidnunc Corp. reception droid followed him with its compound eye as he crossed the lobby and set the revolving door into motion. It was 02:45 a.m. *
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