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Unable to read Dave’s mood and fearing the worst from his usually placid friend, Alan instinctively seizes the potential deadly weapon and returns the ominous pint glass safely to the table. It is clearly time to leave.

Dave reluctantly regains semi-consciousness in the strangely familiar, stark surroundings of an unforgiving police cell. He shivers with the cold and pulls the obligatory, wafer-thin soiled blanket tightly around himself. His head throbs, but somehow he manages to slip back into some sort of restless sleep. The next thing he knows he is enveloped in a thick warm duvet, his sore brow nestled amongst numerous plump pink pillows; an intense low sun prevented from disturbing him by heavy, part-drawn curtains. A thoughtful tumbler of welcoming chilled water and a couple of patiently awaiting paracetamol encourage him, from the nearby table, to arise. Once up, the sweet sound of sizzling bacon conspires with the complimentary smells of a full English breakfast to tempt him on down the hallway. As he approaches the near-closed kitchen door he is desperately trying to recall events of the previous night; however, the purple haze overwhelms his senses as the creaky door suddenly gapes.

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