Free Dead Days (Book 1): Mike by Tom Hartill

 
    PART 1; MIKE
     
    The alarm hits my ears like a jack-hammer, it feels like someone is pushing a needle straight through my forehead and into the centre of my brain. 
    I slap my hand down onto the alarm clock, but I miss, and the glass of water I keep on my bedside table goes flying.  Predictably, it manages to miss the rug beside the bed and smashes into a thousand pieces on the hardwood floor.  I groan inwardly and turn to the empty space beside me. 
     
    This is where Tess usually is, where she should be.
     
    But of course, Tess is finito .  The great Mike and Tess experiment has reached its logical conclusion. 
     
    Still, it’s a shitty feeling to wake up to.
     
    Maybe I should call her?
     
    Christ I feel awful. 
     
    I think about getting up and going to work.
     
    Fuck it, everyone calls in sick once and a while, even I.T. buffs.  Besides, I have the Mac here, I can always claim ‘I’m working from home.’ I pull myself out of bed, and shuffle into the kitchen. 
          I like my flat, it’s light and modern, one of four in this building. I’ve only been here a few months but it feels more like home than anywhere else has.
     
    That’s because Tess stayed here too.  
     
    That treacherous little voice, always there, niggling at me, self-righteous little prick.
     
    Eurgh, I need coffee, my mouth is like sandpaper, and this headache is shaping up to be a real bastard.  I put the coffee through the cafetiere (another little gift from the elusive Tess) and rifle through my cabinets for some painkillers. 
     
    Empty.  Bollocks.
     
    The fridge is looking pretty bare too, maybe I should pop to the corner shop before I ring in sick? 
     
    Good plan.
     
    I throw on some tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt.  I’ll shower when I get back.  I scoop up my wallet and keys and head off to the shop.
     
    As I go down the stairs I pass the front doors of the ground-floor flats.  Alan, who lives in number 1A, is already thumping around, probably building another frigging bookshelf.  I hope when I retire I find a hobby that’s actually worthwhile and doesn’t piss off my upstairs neighbours.
     
    It’s a two minute walk to the shop, and the young Asian guy behind the desk (Riz or Raz or something, I can never remember) is watching TV on the counter.  Usually he looks bored, but today he is rapt.
           I pick up some cereal, milk, a loaf of bread and a tin of beans.  I don’t feel much like cooking.  I approach the counter and ask Riz/Raz for some Ibuprofen.  He reaches behind him, not looking, as his hand quests through the rows of cigarettes, booze and condoms before plucking the box of painkillers from its shelf.  He sets it down on the counter and rings through my items on the till, all the while trying to keep his eyes on the screen.
     
    “Watching something good?”  I ask, a little peeved at the poor service.
     
    “Yeah man, you should see this shit, it’s fuckin’ crazy.”
     
    “What’s that?”
     
    “Riots man, people have started looting and shit.”  He turns the screen towards me, and I glimpse a crowd of youths smashing the front window of what looks like a JD sports.
     
    “Same thing happened a few years ago.  It’ll blow over.  London always sorts itself out eventually.”  I reply.  I expect him to agree with me, but he looks anxiously back to the screen.
     
    “Maybe man, but this is some scary shit, might close up early today.”
     
    I shrug and pay for my shopping.  As I walk back to the flat I hear sirens going off, more than one.  Maybe it was a good idea to stay home today.  If the rioting does get bad, it might be wise to stay off the streets.
     
    I get back into the flat and lock the door behind me.
     
    I kick my trainers off and turn on my mobile phone to call my boss.  My head is still thumping, saying I’m sick doesn’t really seem like too much of a stretch.  The phone rings out for a long time.  Maybe he’s not in yet.  I