2In the admin wing of the Inverclyde Royal Hospital, Ross McArthur closes the door to the HR office behind him and stands for a moment in the corridor outside, leaning against the wall, his eyes closed.
He's still feeling the effects of last night's indulgences, but the phone call from Aldo earlier and the conversation, such as it was, that followed, had gone a long way to making him feel better. The news that you've signed a record deal and suddenly have a bank account twenty-seven grand to the better can do that, and a fuckload more effectively than two paracetamol, a bottle of Irn Bru and a crispy bacon and totty scone roll.
Roused by his mobile ringing, he'd woken up fully clothed, for some reason lying in his bathtub, a pillow under his head and his bass in his arms. In a state of p
