Simon the Zealot had not slept well; the last two nights had been t*****e. On his arrival at the Black Museum, Judas had made him clear out one of the unused rooms on the 7th floor and supplied him with some furniture from the lost and found to make it homely. He could not wander far or leave the building; that was the price he had to pay for his rescue from the gangs of Marseille. It was little more than a bedsit in size. The bed and mattress were old IKEA models, unloved but sadly not unused, and the sheets and the pillowcases had come from the old police accommodation block; he shuddered to think what they had witnessed. He had lain awake each night, and each time the lino in the corridor contracted with the heat, or a door slammed, he imagined his gaoler striding down the corridor, on
