Dead Souls

★ ★ ★ ★ 1/2 (rounded up)
This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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For the best part of an hour, Rebus had been trying to blink away a hangover, which was about as much exercise as he could sustain. He'd planted himself on benches and against walls, wiping his brow even though Edinburgh's early spring was a blood relative of midwinter. His shirt was damp against his back, uncomfortably tight every time he rose to his feet.

Dead Souls

...he wondered why it was he was only ever happy on rewind. He thought back to times when he'd been happy, realising that at the time he hadn't felt happy; it was only in retrospect that it dawned on him. Why was that?