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There was something broken deep inside Michael Cunningham. It started to fracture a long time ago, perhaps as a result of years of excessive d**g and alcohol a***e, and exacerbated by his all-consuming obsession with all things Harold Lasseter. Whatever the cause, he was now so severely impaired it was more than likely, years of professional help, should he ever choose to go that route, would not restore his capacity to think reasonably and logically. It was too late for that. He was lost. He didn’t realise it, and would deny it if he suspected it, but he was lost nonetheless; irretrievably lost.
Cunningham’s grip on reality had been tenuous for many months, and now it was slipping very quickly from his grasp. No longer capable of any rational, constructive thought process, he was una
