They had both clocked off at five o'clock. On time, for once. Sergeant Morse was driving Inspector Thursday, his sometimes friend and always boss, back to his home in the Oxford suburbs. This was their routine. Whether the day had been one of turmoil or trifles, pain or paperwork, Thursday had Morse drive him home. Or Morse elected to himself for the chore. They never did quite clarify whose idea it had been. But both, being stubborn headed, would claim the idea was their own as they trundled home. Both, wanting to dispel the idea that this was a sentimental arrangement, would claim the other had come up with the idea. Either way, as had happened yesterday, and will happen tomorrow, Morse drove Thursday home.

It had been a day of trifles rather than a day of turmoil. Uneventful all in all. The pair of them had spent the day tying up the loose ends on a couple of robberies that had taken place earlier in the week. Morse's presence had also been requested at a local school. He was to reprimand a boy whose 'show and tell' item had been a box of frogs. One had hopped, skipped, and ribbitted itself down the Headmistresses blouse. Morse could not understand why he had been sent to reprimand the boy. It was a job befitting a Police Constable, not a Detective Sargant. Even after Morse recounted the story in the canteen and caused those eavesdropping nearby to wobble on their chairs in hysteria, Morse failed to see what was amusing about it all.

Yes, it had been an uneventful day. That was until the drive home was interrupted by the hiss of the car's communications radio. Thursday scowled at Morse. But Morse picked up the receiver. 'Morse. Go ahead.' A voice Morse knew to be the specky, young Constable McLeish whipped and whirred down the line. 'Sorry, gents. There's a disturbance off the Broad. Pub brawl. You're nearest.'

Morse glanced at Thursday who shook his head. 'Which pub?'

'Fox and Eagle.'

'Right. On our way.'

Morse replaced the receiver and began to turn the car around.

'We were this close,' said Thursday. He pinched his thumb and forefinger in front of his face. 'We were this close to getting home on time tonight. I was this close to getting my dinner hot.'

'And you still will,' said Morse. 'It will only take a minute.' He put the car into gear. 'Besides, we can grab a drink; if you fancy it?'

'It's always the booze with you. You've booze on the brain.'

'Better booze than sex,' said Morse. A cheeky grin spread across his face and he glanced at Thursday out of the corner of his eye. 'Good beer is better than sex, I think,' he said.

'The hell it is,' protested Thursday. 'You've just forgotten! When was the last time you had your end away? It's been a month of Sundays since you last had a girl.'

Morse deflated. 'Well, it's hardly for want of trying.' He gripped the steering wheel and shuffled slightly in his seat. 'And since when do you keep score?'

'It's hard not to. You're a defensive bugger when you haven't got a girl.'

'It's a girl that made me defensive in the first place,' said Morse. His eyes then flashed with panic, and he turned back to face the road. Thursday watch Morse's hands go white and his face flush pink. He'd said more than either of them had expected.

Thursday always wanted, in these vulnerable moments, to stop the car and explain to Morse that it was alright. That he could show these parts of himself he otherwise kept closeted away. But that is what these spotlight moments were – vulnerable. To draw attention to them, in Thursday's experience, was to cause Morse to clam-up and become jittery as he retreated into his own head. The boy seemed to vanish from behind his own eyes when he chastised himself. And, if Thursday were honest with himself, it scared him a little. He would never know if Morse was listening, or what the boy was thinking. For several months at a time this could last.

His Joan had noticed that Morse failed to eat as he should in those times. Thursday had expressed scepticism but, from then on, he began to watch Morse, and, sure enough, any time his Sergeant had been embarrassed or taunted by his colleagues, he would skip lunch, or would refuse Win's offer of morning tea and toast. It was after that that Thursday resolved always to let the moment pass. Morse would speak in his own time, if he wanted.

And already, when Thursday looked back to Morse, his face had become placid. His gaze was less intense, and his fingers tapped against the steering-wheel. Morse regulated him energy by tapping and clicking his pen and pacing about; Thursday had learnt that over the years. These motions were all indicators of an inner aliveness and Thursday knew that, so long as Morse indulged in them, he was probably doing alright. Pretending nothing happened – giving no external tell of what he had going on inside – that was when Thursday had to worry. And, sure enough, when they pulled up outside the pub, Morse had got out the car and tossed Thursday the keys with a small grin. He was alright.

They strolled inside with their warrant cards on display. 'Police. We got a call from this address,' said Morse. The general mutter fell silent. 'What's the problem?'

A supple-skinned young man stepped forward. A three-piece suit clung to his body in all the right places, thought Morse. A tailored job. He probably belonged to one of the colleges of the university. Not an undergrade. But not old enough to be a professor yet either. His nose was red, and blood oozed out from between his two nostrils. He jutted a finger out across the room. 'This philistine was harassing this good lady.' Morse and Thursday looked across the room. On the floor, beside the bar, was a thick-set, sunburnt man. He wore builder's rags and had a hand pressed to the back of his head. At a table not far away sat a girl with honey coloured hair. She had make-up strewn down her face and she blotted her eyes with a paper tissue. She was huddled in the arms of a stout and ruddy-faced women who Morse knew to be the Landlady.

'I didn't do nothing!' cried the stocky man on the ground. 'I was minding my own business when this maniac threw his fists at me.'

'You filthy, rotten liar!' snapped the man in the suit, starting toward him.

Morse extended an arm, stopping the man in his tracks. 'That's enough.'

He glared at Morse – and Thursday prepared to step in – but the man raised his hands with a shrug and came to rest languidly against the bar. Morse gave him one last hard stare before turning the landlady. 'What happened, Paula?'

She shook her head. 'I don't know. I was in the kitchen and when I come back this one,' she points to the suited man, 'is smacking this one in the face.' She points at builder who gives his frantic nod of assent to Thursday.

'Is this your recollection, sir?' said Thursday to the man in the suit. The man raises his chin in indignation but gives a brief nod. 'Yes, more or less,' he mutters. 'But the point is the cad had it coming.'

The builder hauled himself onto his haunches. 'Me! You started it, you—'

'Alright! Enough!' bellowed Morse. He placed himself between the pair, arms extended. 'You, go stand over there. You, over there. We'll talk to each of you in turn.'

The men scowled at Morse and at each other but then marched to their designated corners.

Thursday turned to look at the distressed young women. He ambled over to her and, once the two brawlers were out of earshot, 'You know these men, miss?'

She shook her head.

'Right.' Thursday nodded Morse in her direction and then set about dealing with the two men. Morse withdrew his notepad and pen from his pocket. As he did, Morse couldn't help but notice the businessman's eyes on him. They remained on him as he moved across the room. It made his hackles raise. He glanced at Thursday, to see whether he had also noticed the man staring, but he was already in deep conversation with the builder. Morse kept his eyes averted as he pulled a chair up beside the two women.

'Miss? My name's Morse. Oxford City Police. Do you want to tell me what happened, from the beginning?'

The girl drew herself up from the barmaid's arm with a small sniff. 'Well, I've not long got off work. I have a gal pal there. She was gonna meet me here for a drink once she'd finished tidying the boss' office…'

Morse pressed his pen to paper, nodding as she spoke.

Thursday, being less formal and less inclined to believe people when they told him a story, stood over the builder with his hands thrust into his coat pockets. The builder had withered into an armchair, still clutching the back of his head.

'Let's keep this short and sweet. No funny business. You just tell me how it happened,' said Thursday. Thursday listened to the builder recount how he had been "minding his own business" when he asked the girl if she'd like drink. Posh boy had already been sitting at the table when he'd approached her. 'I knew he couldn't have been her boyfriend,' the builder explained, 'because her clothes weren't as good as his and if they were walking out, he'd have make sure she had better ones.'

Thursday's eyebrows raised. It was an astute observation. 'He could have been trying it on with her as well,' suggested Thursday.

The builder scoffed at the suggestion. 'She's pretty. But look at him.'

Thursday did.

'He's gotta be from one of the colleges. Gown types don't go for town girls.'

Thursday nodded along but his gazed was fixed on the other side of the room where the man in the suit stood alone. He was staring at Morse in a way that gave Thursday the chills. He listened and nodded along, but he couldn't remove his gaze from the businessman. That is until Morse gave a sudden yelp from the opposite side of the room: 'Sir!'

Thursday turned to see the honey-coloured girl flopped in Morse's arms. Morse clung to her, his eyes alight with alarm. 'Sir!'

Thursday rounded on the builder. 'Don't move,' he snapped, and got up. He strode to Morse's side and took some of the girl's weight from him. 'She fainted?'

Morse shook his head. 'She seemed slow, as if she was drunk. But then she stopped talking altogether and...'

The girl gave a small moan as Thursday shook her shoulder. 'Miss? You alright?' But her head rolled in Morse's arm. 'It's like she's a sleep,' said Thursday. 'She can't have had that much to drink already. What time is it?'

Morse wiggled his arm out from beneath the girl's body and glanced at his watch. 'A quarter to six. Pub hasn't been open an hour yet.' He glanced at the table. A pint of beer, a brandy and a small wine glass – still half full. Morse nodded to the glass. 'She couldn't have drunk that much yet, even if that was her second glass.'

'She was as bright as a button when she walked in,' piped the landlady. 'Didn't seem she'd been drinking when she came in.'

Thursday checked the girl's vitals. Morse continued to stare down at the table. One wine, one brandy, one pint. There was something wrong with this picture. Three glasses – that's what it was. The girl said she'd been sat with the guy in the suit. She had the wine and, chances are, he had the brandy. The beer? Belonged to the bricklayer. Beer doesn't mix with wine or brandy. She said he hadn't sat down – the bricklayer. Yet he had put his glass down on the table. An unusual gesture. One typically hangs on to a glass until invited to sit down. And he wasn't invited. Perhaps this overfamiliarity is what had caused the fight to break out.

And yet, Morse noted, there was nothing spilt – on the table or the floor. Drinks were the first casualty in a bar fight. No time to put them down…

Morse picked up the wine glass and held it to the light. He swirled the contents for a moment before holding it to his nose. His brow furrowed. He replaced the glass to the table. Then he drew back his sleeve. He dipped his finger in and transferred it to his mouth. He grimaced. 'Sir?' He nudged the wine glass in front of Thursday. 'Does that taste wrong to you? It's subtle but…'

Thursday frowned and picked up the glass. He sniffed it and his face turned grave. He drew the wine to his lips before spitting it back out again. 'Egh! Is that…?'

Morse nodded. 'Amitriptyline.'

The two policemen then glared at the two suspects.

Both had gone white in the face.

In an instant, as Thursday anticipated, the pair of them took to their heels. The Inspector leapt to his feet, scrambling out of the pub after them. Morse wrestled with the girl that Thursday had thrust onto him. He turned to the landlady and stuffed the sleeping girl into her arms. 'Call an ambulance.' He snatched up his notebook from the table. 'And for back up,' he added, and then dashed out after his governor.

Morse burst into the street and raised a hand against the glare of the setting sun. 'Sir?' There was no sign of his boss or the two culprits. He growled and spun about in place. 'Three or four people that had been traversing the road had stopped and were looking north up the Broad. Morse knew well enough that where there were on-lookers there was trouble. Morse called to the nearest of the agape pedestrians. 'Three men?' The woman nodded. Morse set off in a sprint along the pavement.

On the Broad, beneath the broad blue sky and glittering golden spires, Morse ducked and weaved between the students and cyclists. They meandered homeward oblivious to the drama that was unfolding around them. Morse followed the trail of startled eyes into a side street where Thursday was wrestling a man to the ground. It was the builder. Morse dropped at his boss' side but Thursday, at once, shooed him forward. 'I've got him. Get after the other one,' he panted. Morse looked up. At the end of the street the man in the suit stood breathless and wide-eyed. As soon as he locked eyes with Morse, he took off. Morse scampered to his feet and set off after him.

Thursday continued to wrestle with the man on the ground. 'You've had it. You're under arrest,' gritted Thursday. The man wriggled and grunted with the effort of trying to free himself. Once – twice – he liberated an arm from the policeman's grip but Thursday always got hold of it again. He began to read the man his rights as he reached back into his coat pocket for his handcuffs. When he turned back, Thursday was met with a boot to the face. He gasped, clapping his hands to his nose as his vision went white. He could hear the man he'd arrested clambering to his feet. He grappled at the ground in front of him and caught hold of the man's ankle, but his hand was shaken away. 'You'll only make it worse for yourself!' Thursday gasped. But he heard the footsteps receding at a run.

Thursday pressed his forehead to the ground whilst he waited for his vision to clear. He struck about in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief and then balled it under his nose. His mouth tasted of copper and his first thought was that his wife was going to kill him. They were supposed to be going to her niece's wedding this weekend. They'd not look a dignified couple with his bruised and purple face. Why had he let Morse convince him to respond to one more call-out? He squeezed the bridge of his nose and rose to his haunches. Morse.He should follow the lad. Morse would be having more luck. He was persistent that way. Thursday pushed himself up to a stand and winced at the buzzing in his sinuses. Win wasn't going to be happy. He scraped his handcuffs from the floor and set off in the direction Morse and his two culprits had sprinted.

Morse had lost him. He'd been lead away from the Broad into the twist of passages that flanked the sides of the colleges. The suited suspect had dived down ever narrower openings between buildings. He knew the area, that was for sure. At one point Morse had got close enough snatch hold the man's blazer tails. A piece of the fabric had torn away, and Morse felt a glow of pride. He had a piece of evidence, even if the man got away.

But the man had got away, and suddenly the scrap of fabric seemed a hollow victory. Morse had dove down a shadowed alley only to find it empty. He scanned the alley for potential hiding places before he'd doubled over wheezing. There were no windows, doors or ladders by which the man could have escaped. 'You're only going to make this worse for yourself,' he called out. 'Give yourself in.' Morse strained his ears. He could hear nothing over the sound of his heart hammered and it wasn't the first time that he berated himself for the amount he drank. He straightened up with a heavy sigh and wondered how he was going to explain to Thursday that he had lost the culprit when something gripped his shoulder.

Morse felt the breath on the back of his neck before he heard it. A thick hand appeared over his mouth and he drew a breath to scream.

It was getting dark. The sky has blistered into a scarlet, navy tie-dye. Thursday stood staring up at Radcliffe Cam. The little windows in its side glowed. The streetlamps had blinked on. Thursday had returned to the Broad and when he'd found no trace of Morse there, he'd turned back once more to the maze of colleges. Thursday glanced at his watch and then back up at the Camera. He had not come across in his walk. He imagined Morse would have nabbed his man by now, and would waiting for him in the pub, clicking his heels with a grin and beer foam lining his upper lip. That seemed the obvious explanation as to why he had found him. That's what he'd have done had the bricklayer not kicked him in the face… And yet this conclusion did not satisfy Thursday. He looked about him for the red telephone box he knew was nearby.

Morse began to scrabble at the smothering hands. He'd pull at the fingers and snatched a whisp of breath before the hands clamped down on him again. He kicked as his heels were dragged through the dust. There was a sting as fingernailed embedded themselves in his cheek.

'Stop squirming, you little rat!'

His feet were drawn away from the floor Morse forced his elbow down into the attacker's ribs and a gruff voice cried out. 'Agh! You bastard!' But, in seconds, Morse received a blow to the stomach that blurred his vision and made his throat thick. The hands closed around his lips and throat once more and a fleeting wish whirled through his mind. Thursday had told him not to answer the radio. He made one last attempt to push his captor off balance. But Morse found little leverage. His knees began to fold and an arm encircled is shoulders. He felt something vital slipping away from him. His fingers, his toes, his face, they all felt cold. The arms were about him and he thought of Thursday as he found himself sinking into their embrace.

For several minutes the phone range. Macintyre was the one to answer the call. 'Inspector Thursday,' he said, his tone bouncy and jovial. 'Thought you were off home.'

'Never mind that,' said Thursday. 'Morse and I were called to an incident off the Broad. Two men in a pub. They did a runner. They're both gone.' The line went quiet for a moment and Macintyre listened intently to the clicks. He heard the Inspector draw a breath. 'And Morse is missing, I…' Fred pinched the bridge of his nose against the headache that was blistering behind his sinuses. 'Look, my hackles are up. I need a team. There's something off about this whole thing.'

'Location?' Macintyre had become serious.

'Send half to High and half to the Broad and get them meet in the middle.'

'Descriptions?'

Thursday rattled-off a brief description of both men to the Constable. He glanced intermittently out the windows of the booth, expecting Morse to enter the square at any moment with both culprits in his arms. But Fred knew that wasn't going to happen. Both men had been taller than Morse and one rather stockier.

'Already on their way,' replied Macintyre.

'Thanks, Constable.' Thursday hung up the phone. Morse had been that young. He was still that young. Something wasn't right. Thursday exited the phone booth and set off across the square. He knew he had to retrace his steps.

They laid him down and for a moment the detective was still. Then the arms unravelled and the rush of air sent its lungs into paroxysms. It rolled onto its side retching and something laughed. They jammed a boot into the thing's shoulder, squishing its face into pavestones. Another laugh. Morse retched as a weight pressed down on his lower back. His arms were drawn behind him.

'He's been in this position a few times!' And then. Something so sweet and tender as to make the thing forget where he was. A palm came to rest on his cheek. 'No. I don't reckon you have, have you?' The thing recoiled, squeezing its eyes shut in anticipation of a blow. But none came. It batted its eyes open, and a hand ghosted its neck. It undid his tie. 'Now, you just be quiet and everything will be alright.'

The thing whispered and then whimpered but no-one paid it any heed.

And the thing closed its eyes as its shoulders were exposed to the evening chill.

The wild and startled blue eyes stared back at him. Constable McLeish's hands jittered as he went to the inside pocket of his coat. He grasped what was there and pulled it out. He blew his hard upon his whistle. The heads of the two things on the ground ahead of him shot up. Their eyes were wide and their foreheads sweaty and, in the dark, their white faces gave the impression of animals rabid with starvation. The little Constable shook and, for moment, stood staring and though he thought he might faint away at any moment. He gave a second blast on his whistle and the animals seemed to flare. But then they shrank into the recesses of the darkness and scampered away.

The body ahead of him lay motionless.

The little Constable swayed onto his toes and then stuttered forward. 'Sir?' His fists clutched the front of his coat. The coat was as deep blue as the night sky above him and he seemed to sway with it.. 'Sergeant Morse, sir?' The blue eyes still stared back at him. The Constable's hands shook as he reached for his whistle again but it slipped from his fingers as he lost heart. His knees gave way and he dropped to the ground. His hesitated in front of him and then crawled forward. 'Sir?' He outstretched his fingers and pressed them tentatively against the thing's cheek. The cheek was warm. The Constable folded with relief. 'Sir, can you hear me?' The thing's chest quivered and he looked down and saw its vacancy and his fingers recoiled. 'Sir?'

But thing did not move anymore. The Constable fell back and wrapped his arms about his stomach. He felt indescribably sick; as though something icy and skeletal had prised open his insides and pulled. He groped about for his whistle but it had gone and he sank. 'Somebody help!' he sobbed. He fell into those eyes. 'Please, someone.' Until there was nothing but grey and black.

Those eyes were still there when he opened his eyes. Sergeant Strange was gripping his shoulder. 'That's it, lad,' he said. 'You're alright.' Inspector Thursday was sunk on all fours in front of him. McLeish starred forward and gripped his shoulder. 'It's alright, sir. He's alive,' he said. He watched Inspector Thursday's hands stray forward, and hover, but he dared not touch the body in front of him. 'It's alright, sir. He's alive,' McLeish said again. But it was as if Inspector Thursday could not hear him. Thursday stared down at the knots binding Morse's wrist. Morse's chest heaved and his lips parted and a tear stole quietly out the corner of his eye. McLeish turned away. 'Let's go and find the others,' muttered Strange, and the pair melted into the torch lights and sirens circling at a distance.

It's-it's alright,' the Inspector murmured. His fingers fumbled with the tie that had been wretched around Morse's hands. 'Morse, this is Inspector Thursday. You're alright.' And then, 'It's alright. I'm here. Don't worry.' Fred pulled harder at the knots watching Morse out of the corner. He saw the man's bottom lip quiver for a moment. 'Morse?' Once his wrists were free, Morse raised a hand to his face and swiped at the rogue tear. He turned away from Thursday's supporting hands as he sat up. 'Morse? What happened?'

Morse said nothing. He looked down at himself. He shrunk as if feeling for the first time the cold of the evening air on his bare skin. His shirt hung upon his wrists, having slipped or been pulled from his shoulders. His trousers were still on but hung loosely on his hips where the belt had been pulled away. As if in answer to Thursday's question, Morse drew his knees up to his chest. His fingers then drifted to his shirt front. Several buttons had been ripped away. Thursday started forward and batted his hands away. 'Fingerprints,' he said, and Morse looked at him for the first time. He hesitated, and then let his hands drop to his sides. Thursday looked at Morse shiver and took off his coat. He draped it around Morse's shoulders and Morse flinched. Thursday pushed the fabric into Morse's hands and then looked into the boy's eyes. 'Why didn't you scream?' he whispered. When Morse didn't reply Thursday reached forward and brushed Morse's fringe back from his sticky forehead. 'Morse?' Morse's eyes shone and he sucked in a breath over his bottom lip. He dropped his head.

When more assistance came, Morse refused Thursday's outstretched hands. He got himself up from the floor. Thursday hovered at his elbow and noticed how his shiver persisted. As they oscillated towards the road Morse would stop, and Thursday would have to bring a hand to his lower back and urge him forward. 'It's alright, Morse,' he would say. And Morse would stutter forward again.

At the station, officers stripped Morse of his jacket and shirt, and rage flared in Thursday's stomach as they manhandled Morse into the interview room. Morse sat on his own in the chair at the table. The forensic team came and went. In silence, they dusted Morse's skin for prints. Each time the brush touched his face or a gloved hand adjusted his limbs, Morse gave a little start. Thursday fixed as sympathetic smile on his face but Morse kept his eyes fixed to the ground. His body was still shaking. Just once he glanced up and met Thursday's eye and he flushed pink and ducked his face away again. Thursday decided to give the boy his privacy and went to his office to pull his spare shirt out of the bottom draw of his desk.

When he returned to the interview room, the forensic officers had gone. The vacant gaze had returned to Morse's eyes. He did not seem to notice Thursday, nor the shirt held out to him. Thursday crouched at Morse's side. 'Morse?' Morse didn't respond but didn't protest as Thursday got up and draped the shirt over Morse's shoulders. In turn, he threaded each of Morse's arms through the sleeves and began to do up the buttons. Morse jumped, forcing himself back in the chair.

Thursday smiled, 'you're alright.' He did up the last few buttons and left the top one open. 'There. That's better, isn't it?'

Morse softened.

Strange sat beside Morse and talked at him in a genial tone about the weather and the football as Thursday was taken off to give his statement. Morse gave a vague nod every now and then but Strange knew Morse wasn't really listening. Apparently, they had apprehended the bastards. Strange watched Morse watch the two culprits get dragged kicking and screaming into the station. Then Stranger's hand flew to Morse's back as, without warning, Morse doubled over and vomited over the floor. 'Alright, matey.'

Two college kids. It was part of their routine. Together they would charm a town girl into coming away with them. One of them would court a pretty girl and seal the deal by offering her protection from the other of them who pretended to be a common drunk. Once the knight had protected the maiden from the savage brute, he would walk her back to college where the drug they had slipped her back at pub or the club would start to take effect. There all their friends would be waiting, everyone hot and randy with anticipation. Then they would take advantage of the girl until the sun rose.

'And after they failed to get this girl tonight, they saw an opportunity in Morse…' muttered Strange after Morse had gone.

'It seems that way,' Thursday had murmured on his return.

'Christ.'

It was then Morse's turn to testify to the legitimacy of what his colleagues had uncovered. Morse picked up the glass of water that had been put out for him. It quaked in his hand as he raised it to his lips and Thursday knew that the further away Morse was getting from the event, the diminishing the chance he would be reporting it with any accuracy.

One of the investigators sat forward in his chair and began.

'Enjoy the company of men do you, Mr Morse?'

Thursday winced. It was a bungled case. Morse had never been well-liked at the station. He never rubbed alongside the other men, playing is opera too loud and not going to watch Kidlington play the Oxford Wanders on a Sunday morning. Thursday sat beside Morse as Morse wandered through his side of story. He stuttered and oscillated, and at several junctures the interrogator asked questions of Morse that caused Morse to lapse into silence. He would screw his face up his face and blink his eyes and it would become apparent that Morse couldn't remember. He gave good descriptions of the two men – or at least good enough that his descriptions could be matched to the men they had in the cells. But as they moved away from the incident in the pub and onto the assault on Morse himself, Morse's descriptions became much vaguer, and Thursday winced as the credibility of Morse's story receded on an unreclaimable tide towards the horizon of a failed case. What was worse is that Morse knew it too. The longer he spoke, the more frantic he became, until he had turned to Thursday with a broken voice and pleaded, 'I'm trying, sir. I swear.' And all Thursday could say in return was, 'I know, Morse. Take your time.' And for months afterwards Thursday hated himself for having treated Morse like other witness; turned his body into a crime scene.

Morse recounted how he'd been grabbed from behind – grabbed from behind and then pinned to the floor. How? He'd…he'd had a hand over his mouth, or-or maybe it had been his throat. Or maybe both at one point. There had been an arm around him, he was sure of that. That-that someone – the man he had been chasing – had held his wrists. No. No, the other one had. The other one had held his wrists whilst the one he had been chasing had…had…

'And did you fight back?' said the interrogator.

Morse paused. He nodded.

'There's no flesh beneath your fingernails,' said the interrogator. 'No scratches to yourself. Bruising's light. You've no injuries, except that graze to your face.'

Morse looked down at his hands. Thursday watched as confusion seeped into Morse's features. Then the fear. 'It's almost as if you wanted it,' said the officer. Morse's fingers shook. Then his face coloured pink, and he bowed his head, face a paroxysm of self-loathing. Thursday glanced up at the two interrogators who smirked at one another and Thursday knew he'd get the two of them back. He would make sure Morse never saw their faces in Oxford again.

Win asked no questions when her husband pulled into the drive. She had glanced from between the dining-room curtains and seen Morse under his arm. She opened the front door as Fred raised his keys to the lock. Morse was squeezed to her husband's side, head lilting against Fred's chest. She reached out to help but Fred shook his head. 'He's a bit out of sorts,' he whispered. 'DeBryn's given him something to sleep.' Win stepped aside as Fred manoeuvred Morse across the threshold. 'Kids aren't home, are they?' he said.

'No. Just us.'

'Good.'

Fred coaxed Morse to lift his feet as he walked him down the hall and laid him down on the sofa. Tucking a pillow beneath his head, Fred then removed Morse's shoes and placed them neatly beside one another on the floor. He covered Morse with a blanket and spent some minutes knelt beside him. Just once he reached out and laid a hand on the top of Morse's head.

When he was sure Morse was asleep, he moved into the kitchen to see his patient wife. He'd kept the details from her, of what had happened to make him so late home. He told her how he'd got hit in the face whilst pursuing a couple of college kids. And that Morse had got taken by surprise in an alley. Win, true to her promise, never asked for more than what her husband would willingly tell her. And so, after Fred had finished, they talked of brighter things over their cups of tea until the carriage clock in the parlour tinkled its midnight chime. Fred returned to the parlour, removed his tie and began to make himself comfy for the night. He took out his pipe and settled into his armchair with what was now yesterday's newspaper spread across his knee. He glanced over at Morse from time to time until his eyes, too, grew heavy and he was pulled down into sleep.

Morse at some point had awoken in cold sweat. He sat bolt-up right and clutching at his chest. After a moment, the material world seeped back into him. He saw he was in the Thursday's living room. A single lamp was on, bathing the room in a dim buttercup yellow. In the armchair beside the fire was his boss. Thursday's chin was sunk against his breast. His stomach rose and fell in soft rhythmic snores. Morse pushed the blanket from himself. He saw his shoes on the floor and began to pull them on. He searched about for his jacket before remembering that it had to be left at the station. He looked down and remembered he was wearing Thursday's shirt. He pushed himself up from the sofa. Draped on the edge of the door was Thursday's own blazer. Morse thrust about in the pockets until his hand landed upon the keys to the Jaguar. He drew them out and nearly dropped them as Thursday let out a snort and twisted in his chair. But the man stayed asleep, and Morse crept out into the hallway.

He eased the door closed behind him when—

'Morse?'

Morse started round heart bounding in his chest.

'Mrs. Thursday!'

Win was sat on the stairs in her dressing gown, arms folded about her knees.

'I was just—'

'Leaving?' she said. 'It's three o'clock in the morning.'

'I just…' Morse held up the keys. 'I just wanted a cigarette. They're in the car, I think.'

Win smiled and dipped her eyes. 'I thought we'd got past the point where you felt the need to lie to me,' she said quietly.

Morse dipped his head. 'I didn't—I wasn't—I…' He swallowed. 'I just wanted some air,' he said. 'Want some air.' Win stood up and took the rest of the stairs. She moved to her handbag on the hallway table and pulled out her silver cigarette case. She held it out to Morse. Morse looked at it, and then at her.

'Fred said you'd stopped,' said Mrs. Thursday.

Morse gave no reply, his eyes fixed upon the skirting board. Then, after a moment, he stirred and muttered, 'He told you what happened?'

'He didn't think it was his place,' she said, and put the case back down. Morse only gave a vague nod. She watched the keys twitch in Morse's hand. 'I know I'm not you mother,' she began, 'but I'd feel better if you stayed – had breakfast with us before you go tomorrow.' When Morse didn't raise his eyes, Mrs. Thursday said, 'You're welcome here, Morse, whatever the little voice in your head says.'

Morse huffed out a small laugh and then frowned at himself. 'Sorry, I don't know why I just—I didn't mean…' And then, 'It's not you,' he said firmly. 'It's me.'

Win gave Morse a lopsided look. She reached for the keys. 'Morse—'

Morse pulled away. 'It's fine, Mrs. Thursday.'

'It's fine?'

'I'm fine,' he said. He quirked a smile and Mrs. Thursday flinched. There was something disjointed about the whole expression. The smile has been crooked. Half-formed. His brow soft like a drunkard's but his eyes – each of them – saying something different. Contradictory. In the silence, it frightened her. 'Morse?' She took a tentative step forward, reaching once more for the keys, and Morse snatched his hand back. 'Really, Mrs. Thursday, I think I'd like to go.'

Win gazed at him with parted lips. Then she closed her mouth and turned back to her handbag. 'If you're going to go,' she said, and held the cigarette case out to him. He hesitated and then took the box from her hand. Morse shuffled out into the night and the door swung to. 'Damn,' said Winifred under her breath.

She paced the front parlour, thumb nail between her front teeth, wondering whether to wake Fred. When she heard the front door close once more, she glanced out between the net curtains to see her husband shrugging on his coat. The car was still stood on edge of the pavement.

Fred opened the car door and eased himself into the passenger seat. Beside him, Morse gripped the steering wheel. The one hand was white with exertion. In the other, a forgotten cigarette smouldering and disintegrating between his fingers. In the pale moonlight, Thursday could see the glossy tracks down Morse's face.

'That was a scary thing you went through tonight, Morse.'

A smile twitched on Morse's lips and he snuffed out a weak laugh.

Thursday frowned and sat back in his seat. 'Look, you don't have to say anything. Just listen.'

Morse shook his head, turning his gaze down, but Thursday went on. 'I've seen it before,' he said. 'More times than I can count on both hands. No, don't protest. Just listen. Men who go through something they dare not give breath to. Afraid that, if they do, it will get a life of its own. Something they won't be able control.'

Morse put his keys in the ignition but Thursday held Morse back from the wheel. 'Morse', he said with gravel in his voice, and Morse glanced at him from the corner of his eye. 'I know you think I don't see it. But I do. Everyday.' Morse remained silent and Thursday saw this as his permission to go on. 'I can tell whether you're up or down depending on whether the opera is Italian or German. I know if you're not eating because you put more sugar in your tea. I know when you've slept in your clothes and when you've not slept at all.' He looked down at Morse's hands. 'And I know when something's got you running scared because your hands look like that.'

Morse looked down at his finger, white and trembling; and he closed his hand. 'Sir, I appreciate your concern—'

'Morse, I'm not talking to you as your boss.'

'—but I don't need help.'

'Morse, for heaven's sake—'

'Certainly not from you, or Mrs. Thursday.'

Thursday scowled. 'Win treats you like her son. Maybe you hadn't noticed.'

'Well, I don't need a mother,' Morse said simply. He looked down at his now burnt-out cigarette and began to roll down the window.

'Maybe it's because you're not a father yet,' Thursday continued. 'But to see your kid in pain and no be able to do anything? It's the worst feeling in the world. No parent can sit back whilst their kid suffers.'

'Not in my experience,' Morse mumbled, and he flicked the cigarette end out into the night. He did up the window and then shimmied back into the recesses of his coat, arms crossed over his chest. 'Is that it, then? Can I go?'

Fred stares at him. And Morse averts his gaze. Fred stares a moment longer and then: 'After everything I do for you…'

Morse bristles reaching for the keys once more.

'Yes, thank you. But, trust me, I don't need it.'

Fred's eyes bulge and throws his hands in the air, 'God, what's the use!' He turns to get out of the car and hears Morse twist the keys in the ignition. 'You want to drown yourself, that's your problem,' he spits. He reaches for the handle but something makes him turn back around and he glares at Morse, 'You never want to let people in. You don't have the instinct for it. You just want to wallow in your armchair surrounded by your records and your whisky.' He sees Morse's hands shake and he feels contempt. 'You let the world pass you by. Never mind if it goes to hell without you. You're too good for all that, aren't you? You don't care that innocent women and babes are left without justice. That broken men are left to be down and out. You think you're above it all. You think you're better than the rest of us!' Thursday's gritted teeth flashed at Morse in the dark and Morse shrunk wrapping his arms around himself. 'Everyone needs a leg up but, no, not Morse. I'll tell ya, you want to die alone? You're going the right way about it!'

The keys slipped from between his fingers. With a *chink* they hit the floor.

Fred looked down, almost as if he were confused by the sound. He looked back up at the hand that held them and then at Morse.

There were tears. They were strewn down his face. Glistening and white, they glinted as if snarking wickedly, revelling in the opportunity to stain something pure – but whom they were mocking, Morse or Thursday, Thursday couldn't tell. His eyes grew wide with horror as Morse's chest convulsed and the boy ducked his head. Thursday paled, and reached out a tentative hand. Morse shoves at him, 'Get out!' he hacked, swiping the back of his hand across his cheek. When Fred doesn't move Morse suddenly draws himself to his full height and gives Thursday a firm shove to the chest. 'Get out!' But Thursday is transfixed by his glossy, red eyes. Morse swatted him on the arm, and his shock only deepens the paralysis gripping him. When Thursday doesn't retaliate, Morse thumps him in the shoulder with his fist. Thursday tensed and squeezed his eyes shut, raising his arms against the next blow which Morse let out with a frustrated cry. When Morse hit him again, Thursday seized him by the shirt front, 'Alright!' Morse seemed not to hear him and he pushed at Thursday's chest with a renewed vigour. Fred flinched as Morse's fist landed with a thump once again and he piped, 'It's alright, Morse!' He tried to lay his hand on Morse. 'It's alright.' Morse let out a strangled sound as Thursday took hold of his wrist and Thursday winced in anticipation. But this blow never came. He opened his eyes.

Morse swayed and Fred jerked forward to catch a hold of him. 'Alright' he said, and he arrested Morse's hand as it reached for the door. 'Talk to me.' And, for the first time in his life, Morse did. Inspector Thursday promised never to repeat what he had said. From afar, Win had watched this tussle between her husband and his bagman take place and watched Morse sink into her husband's arms. She withdrew as her husband draw Morse up out of the car and walked him with silent steps into the house. She busied herself with tea-making and turned a blind eye as her husband drew a blanket back over his bagman. And when Morse blinked into the morning light some hours later, and the memory of the night before coloured his eyes with panic, the tea beside him had grown cold. He flew out into the hall, shoes clutched to his chest, before he could notice. And Thursday let him go, hearing the door slam as he took off down the garden path.

On Monday morning, Fred glanced out of his office door to see Morse slide himself into his desk. Morse glanced over the papers momentarily, refamiliarizing himself with where he had left off prior to the weekend and everything that had happened. As if nothing had happened, he picked up his pen and began to scribble notes in the margins. Yes, it was as if nothing but happened. But as Morse drove Thursday home that evening, he had given Thursday's shoulder the briefest touch.

'You're welcome, Morse,' he said.