"You've got me still," Tommy says. As still as he's likely to be without being put in traction. He knows how to lie quietly. But he refuses to be put on his back if he can help it.

He doesn't even move his head, though he wants to. Not that he'd be able to make out much more than blurry, dizzying shapes and the hint of color.

"Dubious man carrying a dead man upstairs for you," Tommy mumbles. "Dubious man in your bed. All sounds very fucking sordid, don't you think?"