Andy pulled the duvet over his head, but for once this did nothing to muffle the sound of power tools as the drill was whirring inside the cavity of his skull - nothing to do with Mr Black and Decker next door. His mouth was as dry as the driest part of the Atacama Desert, and then some; if it had ever known moisture, there was no evidence now. His tongue felt like it was wearing a miniature boxing glove as it felt its way around his cracked mouth. The tell-tale signs of another drunken night were all in place: he was still wearing his shirt which was smattered in chilli sauce, the television had been left on, and the air was heavy with the odour of stale tequila, kebab and vomit. His heavy curtains were drawn but a triangle of sunlight had found its way through the gap, and taunted him above the fireplace. Suddenly he was aware of the unbearable weight of his bladder, but this was as nothing compared to the weight of his sweaty head which could not or would not be moved from the greasy pillow.
Oh my god, it’s my weekend for the kids – she’ll go apeshit , he thought. Frantically he tried to sort out the calendar in his head, but the month, the week and even the day were beyond him. He tried to rewind – he was at work, intending to go home for once, but had been swept by the tide of Christmas cheer into the Anchor for just one, then another. The train timetable had been brought out his pocket at various times purely as a hypothetical exercise. He remembered Jeff going for a piss and not returning, Brian and Clive jumping in a taxi outside the Grapes, a brunette staring at him in Harry Lime’s and dancing with a group of Japanese girls with a tie around his head – nothing else. God knows where he’d picked up the kebab or the bruise on his arm or torn the knee of his trousers. It wasn’t his weekend for the children anyway – last weekend, he’d treated them big style – McDonalds, the zoo and McDonald’s again. What a relief – he was too fragile to have her screaming at him down the phone today. His phone – where was it? He remembered showing Brian a picture of the kids in their nativity costumes – one an angel, one a sheep.
Then it rang from inside the bed. ‘Private Number’ it said, when he eventually brought it to the surface. He pressed to accept the call, unsure whether his larynx would be capable of speech.
‘Andy?’ It was a woman’s voice, but not one he recognised.
‘Yes.’
‘They’re coming for you – I couldn’t stop them. Get out of there now.’
‘Who are they? Who are you?’
‘Last night! The journey home, we …’
The line went dead.
Oh my god, it’s my weekend for the kids – she’ll go apeshit , he thought. Frantically he tried to sort out the calendar in his head, but the month, the week and even the day were beyond him. He tried to rewind – he was at work, intending to go home for once, but had been swept by the tide of Christmas cheer into the Anchor for just one, then another. The train timetable had been brought out his pocket at various times purely as a hypothetical exercise. He remembered Jeff going for a piss and not returning, Brian and Clive jumping in a taxi outside the Grapes, a brunette staring at him in Harry Lime’s and dancing with a group of Japanese girls with a tie around his head – nothing else. God knows where he’d picked up the kebab or the bruise on his arm or torn the knee of his trousers. It wasn’t his weekend for the children anyway – last weekend, he’d treated them big style – McDonalds, the zoo and McDonald’s again. What a relief – he was too fragile to have her screaming at him down the phone today. His phone – where was it? He remembered showing Brian a picture of the kids in their nativity costumes – one an angel, one a sheep.
Then it rang from inside the bed. ‘Private Number’ it said, when he eventually brought it to the surface. He pressed to accept the call, unsure whether his larynx would be capable of speech.
‘Andy?’ It was a woman’s voice, but not one he recognised.
‘Yes.’
‘They’re coming for you – I couldn’t stop them. Get out of there now.’
‘Who are they? Who are you?’
‘Last night! The journey home, we …’
The line went dead.
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