Chapter 1: Hangover.

I'm in bed. I feel like I'm dying. My feet are numb. I'm not sure if I've got my shoes on. It's fucking freezing and I have a terrible hangover. There's music playing. Some terrible dirge, cutting through my head like...like God knows what. I pull the blanket up around my ears to try to drown it out. Wool scratches. Pongs a bit.

A knock at the door startles me from my uneasy doze. A voice comes from the other side. I'm going out? I'm going for a cup of tea. Are you coming?...he sounds desperate...Do you want a cup of tea, Withnail?.

That's the last thing I want. Go away, oh go away. I try to reply, but my mouth won't work. I swill out the clogging gunk with some wine from the glass on the bedside table. "No."

Footsteps recede down the hall, followed by a muffled thud from the street door. Mercifully, I fall asleep again.

The cold wakes me up a while later. I lie in bed cursing the dreary, grimy light when the door goes again. He's back. Good. Action must be taken. I sit up and drain the wine. I go to refill the glass, but the bottle is empty. Clutching the empty bottle, standing, I head in to the lounge to find Marwood standing at the mantle piece, hands on the shelf, head resting between them. He jerks up as I enter. I wonder where he's been. He's wearing his long, leather coat. A necessity against this bloody cold. He looks nervous, red eyes bouncing around behind little round glasses. His mop of chestnut curls glints with light rain drops.

I address this creature. "I've got some extremely distressing news. We've just run out of wine. What are you going to do about it?"

"What? I don't know. You've got to help me: I'm not well"

Help him? How does he expect me to do that? I'm worse off than he is, how can I possibly be of help to him?

"Look at this!", he points his thumbs at me, covered with ink and broken nails. "I'm in the middle of a fucking overdose. I can't cope anymore." He drops on to the couch and slumps there, muttering to himself, or possibly to me. His mood is beginning to get me down. I need something to distract me. I look around the living room. Ghastly wallpaper, mismatching period furniture, sideboards full of worm and cluttered with knick-knacks, cracked vases, overflowing ashtrays, stagnant coffee cups, and newspapers. The place is a tip. Why does he never tidy up? Newspapers? That might take my mind off things.

I clutch up a rag and scan the front page. It seems recent. Who knows, maybe it's even today's? Usual rot on front page. Overweight politician been showing his thing to young girls. Story continued on page two. On page three…oh my God. It's a monster, there is a photograph of an ogre staring out at me. I turn to Marwood.

"Listen to this…"