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After about an hour of listlessly scrubbing the lounge carpet, Brian finally decided he was satisfied that the carpet was back to its original state. More or less, at any rate. He glanced at his watch, it was past 9pm, which begged a number of questions in and of itself. What time had he got back from Dogra’s office – assuming he’d even been in the first place – how long had he spent drinking in front of the TV, how long had he been passed out? Also, where had Jane been until almost 8pm when she had discovered him passed out on the floor?
Brian didn’t get a chance to ask that night. After finishing up in the lounge, and going back to the kitchen to put his shirt on to wash, he went for a shower to get the rest of his vomit off him. His face especially was now well crusted with acidic unpleasantness. He took a few minutes washing it all off, and then decided that he was in the mood for a decent bath. He dried himself off after stepping out of the shower, and left the bath running while he went downstairs and grabbed a Resolve from the medicine box in the kitchen. He put it in a glass and drank it down in one. Hopefully that would at least clear his head, which was still swimming and pounding magnificently as a result of his vodka binge.
After a few minutes, when his bath was ready, he dropped his towel to the floor and stepped in lightly, testing the water temperature. It was hot, just how he liked it. He got in, reveling in the momentary rush of heat through his body especially up his back as he slid into the steaming waters. He lay there for some time with his eyes closed, just relaxing in the water, and occasionally bobbed his head under the water to wash off the sweat that slowly collected on his brow. He was feeling better already.
He bobbed his head under again, and for no reason he could explain he opened his eyes. He immediately wished he hadn’t. He wasn’t in the bath anymore. Not even nearly. He was in a vast expanse of water, God knows where. What the hell was this? Another crappy dream? He vaguely wondered what imaginative death awaited him this time.
No. This was real. The water was cool, and he could taste the salt. He glanced upwards, the surface some two or three metres above him. He realised he was looking out of a pair of goggles, and was even wearing a wetsuit. Why was he here in the water? Steve. He had gone in after Steve. He remembered now, but Steve was nowhere in his vision. Had it got him already? The shark – THE BLOODY SHARK! – might have got him already, which made the idea of him being in the water little short of plain suicide. He looked around, but saw nothing in his vicinity other than the boat bobbing on the surface some ten metres away.
He had a decision to make. Find Steve, or get the bleeding hell out of the water. But before he could make it, the decision was made for him. He saw the shark, a great white no less, at the edge of his vision ahead and slightly to the left of him, and there, only a few metres aside, was Steve, flapping around like a stuck pig. Well that didn’t help. Obviously Steve wasn’t the shark expert he liked to think he was. Brian knew that Steve only had one chance to live. He would have to distract the prehistoric beast and give Steve a chance to make it back to the boat. He swam a few lengths forward before either Steve or the shark noticed him. Both reacted about the same time, Steve by ceasing his suicidal flapping seizure and the shark by swimming back off beyond his visual range.
That didn’t mean much, of course. The beast had probably just decided to rush either himself or Steve from a distance rather than risk a close encounter. Which in turn meant that they didn’t have much time. Brian raced up to Steve and shook him to get him to come to his senses before gesturing in the direction of the boat, which he noticed was not moving in their direction. Steve, probably alive on adrenalin if nothing else, wasted no time in making his escape, swimming, quite rightly, like his life depended on it. Brian was not so swift to run, however. If both of them turned their back, at least one of them would die. He stayed there for a moment, and suddenly realised his lungs were screaming for air – he wasn’t wearing any scuba gear, or even a re-breather! He would have to make a dash for the surface for air, otherwise lack of oxygen, and not a shark bite, would be the death of him. There was no sign of the shark, so Brian risked a swift push to the surface, gasped a few breaths and went back under, despite his lungs still burning for more air.
Only just in time too. As his eyes adjusted to being back under water, he saw the creature rushing at him. He didn’t have time to dodge out of the way, or get his diving knife out from its strap on his left leg, or do something clever to distract the shark or scare it off. No time to do anything except die.
His head burst out of water, gasping for more breath. There were no windows open in the bathroom, and steam enough steam had come from the bath to make it difficult to breathe properly. Brian felt half drowned and gasped for air, both hands holding the left side of the bath, facing away from the wall. Blithering fool! He’d fallen asleep in the bath. He could’ve drowned. Today was not a good day by any measure. He’d wasted himself in front of the TV, could’ve choked on his own vomit and now had almost drowned in the bath.
He pulled out the plug, grabbed a towel and stepped out of the bath. Dripping water everywhere, he walked over to the air circulator and turned it on. He had to clear the steam and get some air in here. His head was pounding again, now no doubt from sheer dehydration. He picked up his watch from the window ledge – 10:30. He’d been in a steaming hot bath for over an hour. He dried himself off, wrapped the towel around his waist and went downstairs to the kitchen for some water. He was parched, and no surprise; the better part of a bottle of vodka and an hour spent dehydrating in the bath. He filled a pint glass and gulped it all down in a few seconds. Then he re-filled his glass and went upstairs to the bedroom. Jane was sound asleep, and Brian doubted she would be in the mood to be woken. He drank another half pint of water, set the glass down on his bedside table, and carefully got into bed.
Hopefully, he thought, he could get through the night without having another terminal dream. Three in one day was quite enough for anyone.
If he had, he didn’t remember them. Astonishingly though, his head was still pounding. To add to that, his nose was running like a tap and his throat was sore. Wonderful start to the day, he thought to himself. He left Jane sleeping soundly next to him while he got up and dressed, had some breakfast, a lemsip and a throat losenge, and left the house to go and see Dogra. Yesterday had been a nightmare. Hopefully today would be a little gentler on him, and he would walk out of the surgery with a prescription for some nameless anti-biotics, and on the way home he could grab some flowers as a token apology to Jane.
Brian didn’t get a chance to ask that night. After finishing up in the lounge, and going back to the kitchen to put his shirt on to wash, he went for a shower to get the rest of his vomit off him. His face especially was now well crusted with acidic unpleasantness. He took a few minutes washing it all off, and then decided that he was in the mood for a decent bath. He dried himself off after stepping out of the shower, and left the bath running while he went downstairs and grabbed a Resolve from the medicine box in the kitchen. He put it in a glass and drank it down in one. Hopefully that would at least clear his head, which was still swimming and pounding magnificently as a result of his vodka binge.
After a few minutes, when his bath was ready, he dropped his towel to the floor and stepped in lightly, testing the water temperature. It was hot, just how he liked it. He got in, reveling in the momentary rush of heat through his body especially up his back as he slid into the steaming waters. He lay there for some time with his eyes closed, just relaxing in the water, and occasionally bobbed his head under the water to wash off the sweat that slowly collected on his brow. He was feeling better already.
He bobbed his head under again, and for no reason he could explain he opened his eyes. He immediately wished he hadn’t. He wasn’t in the bath anymore. Not even nearly. He was in a vast expanse of water, God knows where. What the hell was this? Another crappy dream? He vaguely wondered what imaginative death awaited him this time.
No. This was real. The water was cool, and he could taste the salt. He glanced upwards, the surface some two or three metres above him. He realised he was looking out of a pair of goggles, and was even wearing a wetsuit. Why was he here in the water? Steve. He had gone in after Steve. He remembered now, but Steve was nowhere in his vision. Had it got him already? The shark – THE BLOODY SHARK! – might have got him already, which made the idea of him being in the water little short of plain suicide. He looked around, but saw nothing in his vicinity other than the boat bobbing on the surface some ten metres away.
He had a decision to make. Find Steve, or get the bleeding hell out of the water. But before he could make it, the decision was made for him. He saw the shark, a great white no less, at the edge of his vision ahead and slightly to the left of him, and there, only a few metres aside, was Steve, flapping around like a stuck pig. Well that didn’t help. Obviously Steve wasn’t the shark expert he liked to think he was. Brian knew that Steve only had one chance to live. He would have to distract the prehistoric beast and give Steve a chance to make it back to the boat. He swam a few lengths forward before either Steve or the shark noticed him. Both reacted about the same time, Steve by ceasing his suicidal flapping seizure and the shark by swimming back off beyond his visual range.
That didn’t mean much, of course. The beast had probably just decided to rush either himself or Steve from a distance rather than risk a close encounter. Which in turn meant that they didn’t have much time. Brian raced up to Steve and shook him to get him to come to his senses before gesturing in the direction of the boat, which he noticed was not moving in their direction. Steve, probably alive on adrenalin if nothing else, wasted no time in making his escape, swimming, quite rightly, like his life depended on it. Brian was not so swift to run, however. If both of them turned their back, at least one of them would die. He stayed there for a moment, and suddenly realised his lungs were screaming for air – he wasn’t wearing any scuba gear, or even a re-breather! He would have to make a dash for the surface for air, otherwise lack of oxygen, and not a shark bite, would be the death of him. There was no sign of the shark, so Brian risked a swift push to the surface, gasped a few breaths and went back under, despite his lungs still burning for more air.
Only just in time too. As his eyes adjusted to being back under water, he saw the creature rushing at him. He didn’t have time to dodge out of the way, or get his diving knife out from its strap on his left leg, or do something clever to distract the shark or scare it off. No time to do anything except die.
His head burst out of water, gasping for more breath. There were no windows open in the bathroom, and steam enough steam had come from the bath to make it difficult to breathe properly. Brian felt half drowned and gasped for air, both hands holding the left side of the bath, facing away from the wall. Blithering fool! He’d fallen asleep in the bath. He could’ve drowned. Today was not a good day by any measure. He’d wasted himself in front of the TV, could’ve choked on his own vomit and now had almost drowned in the bath.
He pulled out the plug, grabbed a towel and stepped out of the bath. Dripping water everywhere, he walked over to the air circulator and turned it on. He had to clear the steam and get some air in here. His head was pounding again, now no doubt from sheer dehydration. He picked up his watch from the window ledge – 10:30. He’d been in a steaming hot bath for over an hour. He dried himself off, wrapped the towel around his waist and went downstairs to the kitchen for some water. He was parched, and no surprise; the better part of a bottle of vodka and an hour spent dehydrating in the bath. He filled a pint glass and gulped it all down in a few seconds. Then he re-filled his glass and went upstairs to the bedroom. Jane was sound asleep, and Brian doubted she would be in the mood to be woken. He drank another half pint of water, set the glass down on his bedside table, and carefully got into bed.
Hopefully, he thought, he could get through the night without having another terminal dream. Three in one day was quite enough for anyone.
If he had, he didn’t remember them. Astonishingly though, his head was still pounding. To add to that, his nose was running like a tap and his throat was sore. Wonderful start to the day, he thought to himself. He left Jane sleeping soundly next to him while he got up and dressed, had some breakfast, a lemsip and a throat losenge, and left the house to go and see Dogra. Yesterday had been a nightmare. Hopefully today would be a little gentler on him, and he would walk out of the surgery with a prescription for some nameless anti-biotics, and on the way home he could grab some flowers as a token apology to Jane.
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After about an hour of listlessly scrubbing the lounge carpet, Brian finally decided he was satisfied that the carpet was back to its original state. More or less, at any rate. He glanced at his watch, it was past 9pm, which begged a number of questions in and of itself. What time had he got back from Dogra’s office – assuming he’d even been in the first place – how long had he spent drinking in front of the TV, how long had he been passed out? Also, where had Jane been until almost 8pm when she had discovered him passed out on the floor?
Brian didn’t get a chance to ask that night. After finishing up in the lounge, and going back to the kitchen to put his shirt on to wash, he went for a shower to get the rest of his vomit off him. His face especially was now well crusted with acidic unpleasantness. He took a few minutes washing it all off, and then decided that he was in the mood for a decent bath. He dried himself off after stepping out of the shower, and left the bath running while he went downstairs and grabbed a Resolve from the medicine box in the kitchen. He put it in a glass and drank it down in one. Hopefully that would at least clear his head, which was still swimming and pounding magnificently as a result of his vodka binge.
After a few minutes, when his bath was ready, he dropped his towel to the floor and stepped in lightly, testing the water temperature. It was hot, just how he liked it. He got in, reveling in the momentary rush of heat through his body especially up his back as he slid into the steaming waters. He lay there for some time with his eyes closed, just relaxing in the water, and occasionally bobbed his head under the water to wash off the sweat that slowly collected on his brow. He was feeling better already.
He bobbed his head under again, and for no reason he could explain he opened his eyes. He immediately wished he hadn’t. He wasn’t in the bath anymore. Not even nearly. He was in a vast expanse of water, God knows where. What the hell was this? Another crappy dream? He vaguely wondered what imaginative death awaited him this time.
No. This was real. The water was cool, and he could taste the salt. He glanced upwards, the surface some two or three metres above him. He realised he was looking out of a pair of goggles, and was even wearing a wetsuit. Why was he here in the water? Steve. He had gone in after Steve. He remembered now, but Steve was nowhere in his vision. Had it got him already? The shark – THE BLOODY SHARK! – might have got him already, which made the idea of him being in the water little short of plain suicide. He looked around, but saw nothing in his vicinity other than the boat bobbing on the surface some ten metres away.
He had a decision to make. Find Steve, or get the bleeding hell out of the water. But before he could make it, the decision was made for him. He saw the shark, a great white no less, at the edge of his vision ahead and slightly to the left of him, and there, only a few metres aside, was Steve, flapping around like a stuck pig. Well that didn’t help. Obviously Steve wasn’t the shark expert he liked to think he was. Brian knew that Steve only had one chance to live. He would have to distract the prehistoric beast and give Steve a chance to make it back to the boat. He swam a few lengths forward before either Steve or the shark noticed him. Both reacted about the same time, Steve by ceasing his suicidal flapping seizure and the shark by swimming back off beyond his visual range.
That didn’t mean much, of course. The beast had probably just decided to rush either himself or Steve from a distance rather than risk a close encounter. Which in turn meant that they didn’t have much time. Brian raced up to Steve and shook him to get him to come to his senses before gesturing in the direction of the boat, which he noticed was not moving in their direction. Steve, probably alive on adrenalin if nothing else, wasted no time in making his escape, swimming, quite rightly, like his life depended on it. Brian was not so swift to run, however. If both of them turned their back, at least one of them would die. He stayed there for a moment, and suddenly realised his lungs were screaming for air – he wasn’t wearing any scuba gear, or even a re-breather! He would have to make a dash for the surface for air, otherwise lack of oxygen, and not a shark bite, would be the death of him. There was no sign of the shark, so Brian risked a swift push to the surface, gasped a few breaths and went back under, despite his lungs still burning for more air.
Only just in time too. As his eyes adjusted to being back under water, he saw the creature rushing at him. He didn’t have time to dodge out of the way, or get his diving knife out from its strap on his left leg, or do something clever to distract the shark or scare it off. No time to do anything except die.
His head burst out of water, gasping for more breath. There were no windows open in the bathroom, and steam enough steam had come from the bath to make it difficult to breathe properly. Brian felt half drowned and gasped for air, both hands holding the left side of the bath, facing away from the wall. Blithering fool! He’d fallen asleep in the bath. He could’ve drowned. Today was not a good day by any measure. He’d wasted himself in front of the TV, could’ve choked on his own vomit and now had almost drowned in the bath.
He pulled out the plug, grabbed a towel and stepped out of the bath. Dripping water everywhere, he walked over to the air circulator and turned it on. He had to clear the steam and get some air in here. His head was pounding again, now no doubt from sheer dehydration. He picked up his watch from the window ledge – 10:30. He’d been in a steaming hot bath for over an hour. He dried himself off, wrapped the towel around his waist and went downstairs to the kitchen for some water. He was parched, and no surprise; the better part of a bottle of vodka and an hour spent dehydrating in the bath. He filled a pint glass and gulped it all down in a few seconds. Then he re-filled his glass and went upstairs to the bedroom. Jane was sound asleep, and Brian doubted she would be in the mood to be woken. He drank another half pint of water, set the glass down on his bedside table, and carefully got into bed.
Hopefully, he thought, he could get through the night without having another terminal dream. Three in one day was quite enough for anyone.
If he had, he didn’t remember them. Astonishingly though, his head was still pounding. To add to that, his nose was running like a tap and his throat was sore. Wonderful start to the day, he thought to himself. He left Jane sleeping soundly next to him while he got up and dressed, had some breakfast, a lemsip and a throat losenge, and left the house to go and see Dogra. Yesterday had been a nightmare. Hopefully today would be a little gentler on him, and he would walk out of the surgery with a prescription for some nameless anti-biotics, and on the way home he could grab some flowers as a token apology to Jane.
Brian didn’t get a chance to ask that night. After finishing up in the lounge, and going back to the kitchen to put his shirt on to wash, he went for a shower to get the rest of his vomit off him. His face especially was now well crusted with acidic unpleasantness. He took a few minutes washing it all off, and then decided that he was in the mood for a decent bath. He dried himself off after stepping out of the shower, and left the bath running while he went downstairs and grabbed a Resolve from the medicine box in the kitchen. He put it in a glass and drank it down in one. Hopefully that would at least clear his head, which was still swimming and pounding magnificently as a result of his vodka binge.
After a few minutes, when his bath was ready, he dropped his towel to the floor and stepped in lightly, testing the water temperature. It was hot, just how he liked it. He got in, reveling in the momentary rush of heat through his body especially up his back as he slid into the steaming waters. He lay there for some time with his eyes closed, just relaxing in the water, and occasionally bobbed his head under the water to wash off the sweat that slowly collected on his brow. He was feeling better already.
He bobbed his head under again, and for no reason he could explain he opened his eyes. He immediately wished he hadn’t. He wasn’t in the bath anymore. Not even nearly. He was in a vast expanse of water, God knows where. What the hell was this? Another crappy dream? He vaguely wondered what imaginative death awaited him this time.
No. This was real. The water was cool, and he could taste the salt. He glanced upwards, the surface some two or three metres above him. He realised he was looking out of a pair of goggles, and was even wearing a wetsuit. Why was he here in the water? Steve. He had gone in after Steve. He remembered now, but Steve was nowhere in his vision. Had it got him already? The shark – THE BLOODY SHARK! – might have got him already, which made the idea of him being in the water little short of plain suicide. He looked around, but saw nothing in his vicinity other than the boat bobbing on the surface some ten metres away.
He had a decision to make. Find Steve, or get the bleeding hell out of the water. But before he could make it, the decision was made for him. He saw the shark, a great white no less, at the edge of his vision ahead and slightly to the left of him, and there, only a few metres aside, was Steve, flapping around like a stuck pig. Well that didn’t help. Obviously Steve wasn’t the shark expert he liked to think he was. Brian knew that Steve only had one chance to live. He would have to distract the prehistoric beast and give Steve a chance to make it back to the boat. He swam a few lengths forward before either Steve or the shark noticed him. Both reacted about the same time, Steve by ceasing his suicidal flapping seizure and the shark by swimming back off beyond his visual range.
That didn’t mean much, of course. The beast had probably just decided to rush either himself or Steve from a distance rather than risk a close encounter. Which in turn meant that they didn’t have much time. Brian raced up to Steve and shook him to get him to come to his senses before gesturing in the direction of the boat, which he noticed was not moving in their direction. Steve, probably alive on adrenalin if nothing else, wasted no time in making his escape, swimming, quite rightly, like his life depended on it. Brian was not so swift to run, however. If both of them turned their back, at least one of them would die. He stayed there for a moment, and suddenly realised his lungs were screaming for air – he wasn’t wearing any scuba gear, or even a re-breather! He would have to make a dash for the surface for air, otherwise lack of oxygen, and not a shark bite, would be the death of him. There was no sign of the shark, so Brian risked a swift push to the surface, gasped a few breaths and went back under, despite his lungs still burning for more air.
Only just in time too. As his eyes adjusted to being back under water, he saw the creature rushing at him. He didn’t have time to dodge out of the way, or get his diving knife out from its strap on his left leg, or do something clever to distract the shark or scare it off. No time to do anything except die.
His head burst out of water, gasping for more breath. There were no windows open in the bathroom, and steam enough steam had come from the bath to make it difficult to breathe properly. Brian felt half drowned and gasped for air, both hands holding the left side of the bath, facing away from the wall. Blithering fool! He’d fallen asleep in the bath. He could’ve drowned. Today was not a good day by any measure. He’d wasted himself in front of the TV, could’ve choked on his own vomit and now had almost drowned in the bath.
He pulled out the plug, grabbed a towel and stepped out of the bath. Dripping water everywhere, he walked over to the air circulator and turned it on. He had to clear the steam and get some air in here. His head was pounding again, now no doubt from sheer dehydration. He picked up his watch from the window ledge – 10:30. He’d been in a steaming hot bath for over an hour. He dried himself off, wrapped the towel around his waist and went downstairs to the kitchen for some water. He was parched, and no surprise; the better part of a bottle of vodka and an hour spent dehydrating in the bath. He filled a pint glass and gulped it all down in a few seconds. Then he re-filled his glass and went upstairs to the bedroom. Jane was sound asleep, and Brian doubted she would be in the mood to be woken. He drank another half pint of water, set the glass down on his bedside table, and carefully got into bed.
Hopefully, he thought, he could get through the night without having another terminal dream. Three in one day was quite enough for anyone.
If he had, he didn’t remember them. Astonishingly though, his head was still pounding. To add to that, his nose was running like a tap and his throat was sore. Wonderful start to the day, he thought to himself. He left Jane sleeping soundly next to him while he got up and dressed, had some breakfast, a lemsip and a throat losenge, and left the house to go and see Dogra. Yesterday had been a nightmare. Hopefully today would be a little gentler on him, and he would walk out of the surgery with a prescription for some nameless anti-biotics, and on the way home he could grab some flowers as a token apology to Jane.