Free Out of Towners by Dan Tunstall Page B

room gradually starts slowing down. I take a few breaths and wrestle myself out of my sleeping bag. I swing my feet onto the floor as carefully as I can, checking that it isn’t going to move, then I stand up and stretch. My whole body seems to creak and my head is throbbing. It feels like someone has laid carpet on my teeth in the night.
    I creep out of the bedroom shielding my eyes and holding onto the doorframe. Robbie’s at the kitchen sink in his boxers, washing last night’s cider glasses and Pot Noodle forks.
    â€œMorning,” he says.
    â€œMorning,” I mumble.
    I take one of Robbie’s glasses and get myself a drink of water. It’s not as cold as I’d like it to be, but I down it in one. It makes me feel a bit better, but not much.
    Dylan and George haven’t surfaced yet. I push open the door to their bedroom. The place reeks. Hours and hours of solid farting. I hold my nose and peer into the gloom. Nearest to me, Dylan’s flat out, snoring like a warthog. On the far side, George is sitting hunched forward in his sleeping bag. He hears me come in, but he doesn’t look up.
    â€œChris,” he wails. “I’m dying.”
    I can’t help laughing.
    â€œServes you right, you drunken slob.”
    My bladder feels the size of a football, so I head for the bathroom. Standing in front of the toilet, I try to concentrate on having a piss. It’s taking a while, but I’m getting there. I look down. It’s not good. Dark yellow, verging on orange.
    When I’m finished, I run a hand through my hair and step up to the mirror. I pull down my lower left eyelid. Where my eye is supposed to be white, it’s light pink. I look shattered and I need to get myself on track. I grab my sponge bag and step into the shower.
    As the water splashes over my head, images from last night go round in my brain. Drinking cider. The Family Entertainment Centre. The hen party. The fighting. The beach. The stars. The fire. The girls. Standing in the sea. Did all that really happen? My stomach twists. Steph. Does she actually exist?
    Thoughts of Steph fill my mind. The way she looks. The way she talks. The way she is. She’s gorgeous, she’s bright, and yet she’s done something as mad as pinching a motor. How did that happen? It’s like I’ve made her up. But I haven’t. She’s real. And I’ll be seeing her again in a few hours.
    I think of the things I said to her. Stuff I’ve never said to anyone else before. I’m expecting a hot rush of shame to swallow me up. Maybe I was being a tosser, running my mouth off because I’d had a few pints. But the rush of shame doesn’t come. I’ve not got anything to feel embarrassed about. What I said I meant. It wasn’t just the drink talking.
    Ten minutes later, I’m out of the shower. I’m feeling a whole lot more human. I dry my hair and wrap the towel round my waist, sarong-style. I brush my teeth and I put a bit of wax in my fringe. Then I go back into the main part of the caravan.
    George has made it out of the bedroom. He’s taken two steps outside the door and collapsed on the floor. Now he’s curled up in a foetal position, a puny white body in a pair of Paisley Y-fronts, whimpering like a baby.
    I kneel down next to him.
    â€œI know what you need, George mate,” I say.
    George keeps on whimpering. Robbie’s sitting over by the TV. I look at him and wink.
    â€œYou need the hair of the dog.”
    Robbie gets the bin bag from under the table and holds it open while I get out one of the empty bottles from last night. Ideally it would be vodka, but cider is the best I can manage. I unscrew the lid, then I poke the top under his nose. George starts writhing around, desperately trying not to inhale the smell of stale apples.
    â€œPiss off,” he howls. “Piss off.”
    I give him a few more wafts, but he’s had enough. I leave him writhing