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CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
George barged into Owen’s room without knocking. Realising his friend was still in bed and sleeping, he glared at the mound of bedding. ‘For crying out loud, Owen! What are you doing still in bed?’
The only sign of human life was a single bony foot (at a guess shoe-size eleven) protruding from the bottom end of a blue striped duvet
The mound moved and said, ‘Go away, you twmffat.’
George laughed, unoffended by his Welsh friend calling him an idiot. He threw himself onto the middle section of the bed and bounced vigorously.
‘Ouch!’
Not satisfied with only eliciting a single muffled complaint from under the cover, he bounced on it a couple more times.
‘Time to get up, you lazy bastard.Come on!We’ll miss the train if you don’t get a move on.’
‘Get off!Stopacting like an out-of-control cocker spaniel, will you?’ Owen emerged from underneath the bedding. His hair, a little too long, a tangle of almost black curls toppling over his frowning brow. Dark stubble contrasted dramatically with pale skin and bloodshot blue eyes.
‘We’re late. Come on.’ Standing again, George pulled the duvet off the bed and exposed a naked Owen.
‘Not fair,’ Owen moaned. Curling into the foetal position, he burrowed his head under the pillow, mumbling, ‘Go away, will you, you mad Englishman. I need to sleep.’
As George wondered what more he could do to get Owen out of bed, a pair of lacy knickers fell to the floor from the folds in the duvet.
‘Aye, aye, what’s this?’ He dumped the bedding and picked up the black lacy undies. ‘You had company last night. Was it the beautiful Bethan?’
‘Mind your own.’ Owen growled, dragged himself from under the pillow, snatched the knickers from George and threw them back on the floor.
‘You getting up now?’
‘It seems like I am, since I have no choice.’ Owen squinted a bleary eye at George, wiped his palms down his face, pulled an expression like he was rearranging his features, then stood up and staggered towards the bathroom, holding his head, moaning under his breath. ‘Iesu Grist! My head hurts.’
George called after him, ‘What’s that mean? I don’t think I’ve heard you say that before.’
‘Yes, you have. It means, Jesus Christ.’
The bathroom door closed, and George shouted through it, ‘Have you packed?’
‘Yeah. Last night, before we went out.’
‘Will you be long in there?’
George paced around his friend’s student accommodation, eager to leave and irritated by its tidiness. Must be because of Owen’s soldier dad, he thought. Perhaps he trained Owen to be this organised. Or maybe Owen had that condition… what was it? Oh, yes. OCD. Whatever.
George walked from one end of the room to the other. It didn’t take long. It was not bigger than his own place, but this room was too tidy and clean for a student. Should have housed a monk. George smiled to himself, picked up the flimsy black knickers near the bed, and placed them on the desk. Owen certainly was no monk. Scanning the room again, making mental comparisons to his own, which currently looked as if a tornado had swept through it, George noted the only thing in disorder was Owen’s single bed. The rest, a desk and chair, some shelves, cupboards all just so. All the books sorted by title. Pens and pencils in a chipped half pint jug. Notes from a recent lecture neatly stacked. More books, more books that had been read. ‘How long will you be now?’ George tried again, impatience growing to an explosive level.
‘I don’t know. Five or ten minutes.’ Something clattered to the floor as Owen shuffled around the bathroom. He muttered a curse, which sounded like something else in Welsh and added, ‘Give me ten minutes to shower and chuck some clothes on, will you?’
George moved to the door. ‘I’ll see you in the café, then. I’m going to get some breakfast. You want anything?’
‘Just some coffee–black.’
‘I know, no sugar.’
In the café,Owen sat silently contemplating his coffee, leaving George peacefully enjoying his hearty breakfast. On the walk to the station, Owen still seemed disinclined to talk.
George was not a man comfortable with silence. He swerved a sideways glance at his friend and wondered what caused Owen’s gloom.
‘Shame your Bethan went to her parents for Christmas,’ he said, as a bit of a phishing exercise.
