Wrong'un by Keith A Pearson

Author:Keith A Pearson [Pearson, Keith A]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CrestaPress Publishing
Published: 2018-01-05T00:00:00+00:00

21.

Three times I was woken in the night: once by the wind outside and twice by the wind emanating from the adjacent single bed.

It’s not quite eight o’clock and it’s all I can do to lie here and stare at the ceiling. Even blinking hurts. To make matters worse, the air is laced with a stench so foul it would make a billy goat puke.

Clement grunts, rolls over, and breaks wind again.

What have I done to deserve this?

I doze for another half hour but the constant fear of suffocation proves a barrier to actual sleep. I have two choices: endure the pain of getting out of bed or stay put and suffer more of Clement’s rancid flatulence.

I attempt to sit up. Every slight movement causes my brain to shift and thump against the inside of my skull — unlikely, but certainly how it feels. That same brain then provides vague flashbacks of last night. Little by little, those flashbacks all come together into one horrendous show reel, ending at the moment we left the pub. The journey back to the hotel is lost, though, and I have no recollection of how I managed it.

It’s scant consolation, but I suspect six unfortunate men are feeling far worse than I do this morning.

I stumble to the bathroom and collapse in front of the toilet bowl. After several minutes of dry heaving, I clamber to my feet and lean against the sink. The view in the mirror only adds to my suffering. A face suddenly appears, reflected from the doorway beyond my shoulder.

“Morning, Bill. Sleep well?”

Dressed only in his socks and a pair of unflattering underpants, Clement ambles over to the toilet. Unabashed, he empties his bladder and breaks wind.

“Jesus, Clement. Must you?” I groan.

“What’s the matter? You feeling a bit delicate?”

“I feel like death.”

“You’ll be fine,” he chirps, still urinating. “Nothing a cooked breakfast won’t sort out.”

Even the thought of food induces more dry heaving.

Clement shakes himself, and just when I think he’s about to leave me in peace, he pauses. Without warning, he drops his underpants and sits on the toilet.

I stare at him, open mouthed. In hindsight, I should have kept my mouth closed.

“What?” he says, staring up at me. “I need a shit.”

I find a surprising turn of speed and hurry from the bathroom, closing the door on the way. To a soundtrack of grunts and groans, I locate my discarded trousers and pullover. It is with some relief I find both my phone and wallet still in my trouser pockets.

It takes several minutes to get dressed and put my shoes on. By the time I’ve finished, Clement has returned from the bathroom and is in the process of getting dressed himself.

“Cracking night weren’t it?” he says.

“It was…eventful.”

“Did you get anywhere with that Sandra bird?”

I inwardly cringe. “No, not really.”

“Never mind. Plenty more fish in the sea.”

Once we’re both dressed, Clement insists we take advantage of the hotel catering and frog marches me down to the dining room. I have no appetite but I’m in desperate need of fluids.

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