Eight Acts by A.L. Lester

Author:A.L. Lester [Lester, A.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-03-04T00:00:00+00:00

Act 5: Morning Light

Saturday, 13 August 1967

It was a grim morning.

Percy had dozed fitfully on the settee, curled against Adrian, who had kept the table-lamp on and read quietly, running a hand over his hair gently for a while when he finally shifted to pillow his head on the other man’s lap. Every couple of hours one of them had silently got up and carefully opened the bedroom door a crack. Les was breathing steadily each time, rasping through his mouth because of the broken nose, and it seemed cruel to wake him as Dr Beverly had insisted they did. He answered questions about who he was and where he was and who the Prime Minister was sensibly each time, exhausted and a little dazed but coherent, before they let him go back to sleep.

Percy dragged himself into classes and offered Les’ excuses again with the same stomach-bug pretext. They’d have to work something else out for Monday, but for now that would do.

By the time he got home, he was running on fumes.

“Hey,” he said, coming in and chucking his briefcase on the floor by the door before sliding his coat off. “How’s everyone?”

Adrian was blinking owlishly at him from the armchair, clearly just waking up. Les was laid out on the settee under a blanket, dressing gown on over his pyjamas, staring fixedly at a low-volume Grandstand on the television and clutching a cup of tea. He glanced over at Percy and then back at the telly.

“Not too bad,” he said, finally, when Adrian didn’t speak. “I got up for lunch. Adrian tried to make me go back to bed, but I’d rather be out here. At least I can watch the telly. My head’s killing me. I can’t read.”

He looked dreadful. The bruising on his face had come out and he was a rainbow of black and purple and red. His left eye was swollen almost shut. Percy could see the edges of bruising on his wrists, peeping out from under his pyjama sleeves.

Percy moved toward the kettle. “More tea?” he said.

“Here, I’ll get it,” Adrian interrupted, rising.

“No, it’s all right,” he said, filling the kettle under the tap. “I’m here now.”

Adrian helped him anyway, retrieving the mugs he and Les had been drinking out of and coming to stand beside him in the tiny kitchen area. “How was your day?” he asked.

“All right.” He turned to Les. “I told them yesterday that you had a stomach bug. I didn’t say anything different today. We’ll have to think of something before you go back in, though. The bruising…” He trailed off.

“Yeah,” said Les, harshly.

“Bev called round,” said Adrian. “She says he hasn’t broken his ribs, they’re bruised, maybe cracked. But nothing’s actually out of place.”

“And I’m not pissing blood anymore,” interrupted Les grimly. “Which is nice.”

“Jesus, Les!” Percy put the lid on teapot with a clatter. “You didn’t tell me that yesterday!”

“What would you have done? I told the doctor. And it was my own fault.” His words were muffled by the swelling of his mouth.

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