Morningstar Manor

Urquhart was sitting at the bar in the Lamb, working his way through their better whiskey collection, and getting quietly and politely drunk.

Quite drunk.

Dreams had been haunting him in the last few nights, dreams of hands casually lying by the roadside on their own, of deftly taking down dirty young men in mid-stone throw, of poor Jamie Campbell desperately joking through his last minutes while the helicopter just couldn't land under fire.

Urquhart hadn't thought about it all for years, and it didn't matter to him any more, while he was awake.

But the loss of sleep started grating, so he'd decided to self-medicate in a way as compatible with the image he cultivated as possible.