CAMDEN TOWN

There is something unspeakable in Whitty’s mouth. Is it a dead animal?
No, it is his tongue.
The correspondent opens his mouth – carefully, for the lips adhere ot one another and the skin in one corner has cracked. He refrains from opening his eyes, for the lids have been secured by two sharp objects.
He slides gently over the edge of the bed, flops onto the floor with a wet thud, and gropes blindly for the commode. He relieves his swollen bladder while remaining on all fours, for balance. He rolls onto his sides, arms and legs splayed in front, heaving in short grunts.
He has transformed into a dog. That would explain the terrible taste. A dog will put any deuced thing in its mouth. He remains still, eyes closed, thinking things through… Sometimes of a morning he imagines himself having fallen prey to some malevolent night sprite, a temperance fiend perhaps, which sneaks into the bedroom carrying a disgusting substance, maybe faeces, with which to punish people who sleep with their mouths open, having imbibed deeply.
On the other hand, maybe he has become a dog.
He burrows his head under the rug for warmth. He sneezes on a ball of dust and experiences the sharp sensation of a wire tightening around his skull. Placing one paw on his head, he presses the temple with his thumb…
A thumb. He has a thumb. He is not a dog.
For a moment, the thought he was a dog.