Sadly, the curtains are doing a poor job of shielding my gritty eyes from the blisteringly bright sunlight, so there’s no way of me going back to sleep even if I tried.
It’s evening in the UK. I could call Elise and check in, but I only spoke to them eight hours ago when I couldn’t sleep the first time round. Instead, I settle on firing up my laptop to assess what Netflix in Australia has to offer. A cooking show catches my attention and I curl around the laptop in the hope of having a restful morning.
Harper and I don’t have plans to work out until 9am, at his insistence that my 7am starts were much too early for him. It’s a tiny compromise to keep Anders off both of our backs. I might as well make the most of being awake already, but not having anything to do.
I’m halfway through the first episode when my phone starts ringing. To my surprise, it’s Harper. Before 7am, nonetheless.
‘Hello?’ I answer cautiously. What could he want at this time of the morning? Or, come to think of it, at any time?
‘Can you come to my room?’ His voice is quiet and croaky and I’m almost afraid to ask why.
It was one thing being civil and trying to learn to be teammates. And another to be asking favours before the crack of dawn.
Has he got someone in there who shouldn’t be hearing this call? What kind of mess has he got himself into now? Yet another shitshow he wants to drag me into and then expect me to clean up. Whatever it is, I want no part in it.
‘Hi Kian, how are you? Thanks for asking, Harper, I was great until this call. Do you have no manners at all?’ I let out an exasperated sigh. ‘No, I can’t come to your room. It’s five in the morning.’
‘Kian.’ Oh no. This pleading tone is new, and I’m a sucker for a lost cause. ‘I, uh…’ The line goes quiet for a couple of seconds and then I hear the awful sound of someone retching and, worse, vomit hitting the surface of water.
‘Are you okay?’ What a stupid question when he’s clearly got his head in the toilet. My flash of compassion is gone in an instant. ‘Did you seriously just call me because you’re hungover? What is it you imagine I can do to help?’
‘Mmmm… Don’t have a hangover.’ He starts to cough and I have to pull the phone away from my ear as he heaves into the toilet again.
‘Sure, sure. The sick doesn’t lie.’
‘Not a fucking hangover,mate.’ He sounds pissed off. ‘I’ve been up all night. My stomach hasn’t been right since I got into bed.’ There’s a pitiful shake in his voice. I consider that if he were hungover, I don’t know why he would advertise it to me. The way he parties, he must be permanently wrecked, so if anyone knows how to deal with hangovers it’s him. If he’s as much like my father as I think, they’re probably his speciality.
Then again. I did see him right in front of my eyes last night decline a night out on the town with some of the other drivers, instead settling on just going for a quick meal with Johannes.
‘Still doesn’t answer the question of why you’re calling me,’ I say.
‘Please, just help me.’
Why am I such a pushover?I hate that I’m so close to caving.
‘Isn’t there someone else you could have called? Like Johannes, or if you’re unwell the team doctor?’
‘I can’t. It’s so early and you’re always awake.’Oh, so I’m just the convenient call brilliant.
‘What do you expect me to do?’
‘I’ve drunk all the bottles of water and the ginger ale in the mini-fridge. Have you got any left in yours? Could you bring me something to sip on whilst I lie on the bathroom floor? And maybe some ice? Please.’ He sounds pathetic and desperate, and I fight the instinct to immediately cave to his demands. But then I realise this is the first time he’s actually used a pleasantry with me.
‘Okay.’ Ending the call, I roll out of bed and pull on a pair of sweats and a clean T-shirt. There’s a stock of bottled water and sports drinks in our mini fridges so I grab a couple of each and make my way down the corridor to his room. I knock on the door and he calls out that he’s put it on the latch. I try the handle and slip into the room.
Christ!It reeks in here.
The thick smell of sick hangs in the air and I quickly dump the bottles on his bed, cover my mouth and nose with the hem of my T-shirt and try not to gag as I race to open the windows. Opening both, grateful for the fresh air that rushes into the room. Luckily, the retching in the bathroom has stopped, but when I open the door I’m met with a very sorry state.
He’s as pale as a ghost, eyes bloodshot and face flushed. He’s curled around the base of the toilet, his cheek pressed to the cold tiles of the floor.
‘You look bloody awful.’
He eyes me with a frown, noting I’m empty-handed, and I realise I’ve left what I came with on his bed.
‘Thanks for stating the obvious,’ he croaks out, his throat sounding as rough as gravel on a cheese grater.
I hold up a finger to him, indicating that he should wait there, though he’s clearly going absolutely nowhere. I get the drinks and return.
