I woke up in the foetal position, on my back, on Trev’s tiny sofa, with an old curtain over me. This curtain was a step up from the tea towel I once found draped over me when I woke there. Then the usual panic-stricken search for phone, wallet and glasses. My wallet was in my back pocket. My glasses were on the floor over by the television as if flung there. No phone, though. Oh, good.
I had not the faintest idea what the time was. I peered out of the grimy window to try to gauge the hour by the strength of the daylight. The sky was overcast, the road empty. Difficult to tell. There wasn’t a clock in the sitting room. Nor was there one in the kitchen. I opened Trev’s bedroom door and crept in to look for his phone.
Trev, all head and massive, tattooed torso, was sleeping on his side, gently, like a big baby.
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