My thoughts grew wilder and wilder. In the restaurant I had already drunk far more than usual, but in desperation I poured myself another large vodka and drank it while undressing and getting into bed. The alcohol did not send me to sleep but muddled my thoughts even more. A miscellany of loosely connected memories paraded through my mind: a conversation I once happened to overhear in a second-hand market in which a trader said that half of the stuff on the stalls was probably stolen; Tom's flat and his odd collection of second-hand furniture - what luxury it must have seemed after a prison cell; a horrible story Andrew had once told me about someone he used to work with forging orders from a pharmacy for controlled drugs, who was caught and had hanged himself at the police station. Endless unconnected thoughts and impressions tumbled through my consciousness, a kind of mental landslip crashing through my brain.
After an hour I still could not sleep or even lie still. I opened my eyes, watched the luminous dial of the clock for ten minutes and got up again. I felt thirsty and made myself a cup of tea. Taking it over to the window I pulled back the curtain to look out into the street. It was deserted. What did I expect to see out there in the middle of the night? Tom breaking into one of the parked cars?
Then I remembered once before gazing out into the darkness of an empty road. After my parents died, from the bedroom window of my uncle's house, night after night I had stared out into the shadows, wishing that some mysterious means of escape from my unhappiness lay hidden in the darkness, or that a miraculous saviour might somehow materialize in the eerie glow of the street lights.
Then, as now, my inability to sleep would not excuse me from the demands that the next day would bring. I went back to bed, and some time after five o'clock the need for slumber finally quietened my turbulent thoughts.