Garston was cold too, and he was sorely tempted to point out that if Winston hadn’t shot the cop, they’d have all spent the night in a cosy little cottage down by the coast, with central heating that worked and comfortable beds. Instead, between the discomfort of the broken chair, the arctic conditions of the flat and Angela’s frequent outbursts, Garston had hardly managed to grab any sleep at all, and to top off the experience, his poor aching spine felt as though one of his vertebrae would snap if he made any sudden moves. Of course, it would’ve been unwise to mention any of this to his selfish uncle so he just kept quiet.
“I’m hungry,” Winston snapped, scowling at him petulantly. “Get me some food.”
Biting his tongue again, Garston turned to leave.
“Wait. I need a leak, so get Angela to sort out the food while you help me into the toilet.”
Forcing his face to remain impassive, Garston turned to face his uncle. “Your every wish is my command,” he said with an elaborate bow.
“Don’t take the piss,” Winston growled, and promptly threw a lumpy pillow at him.
Garston sidestepped the cushion, shook his head in despair, and walked out of the room.
“Where d’ya think you’re going?” Winston shouted after him. “I need that pillow!”
“Get it yourself,” Garston mumbled under his breath as he closed the creaking door behind him.
As he trudged back to the lounge to wake Angela up, he heard Winston clamber out of bed, complaining about having to retrieve his own pillow. When the cantankerous bastard yelped in pain, Garston allowed himself a petty smile of satisfaction.
He checked his phone in case the fisherman who was going to smuggle Winston to France had called him, but he hadn’t. Sonia had though. He had a series of missed calls from her. He pulled a face; she was probably ringing to shout at him again because Errol had finally turned up and had confessed everything to her like the weak-willed idiot he was. Garston couldn’t face dealing with her ranting at him right now; he would call her back later.
Angela hadn’t moved since he’d left the room, so he impatiently shook her arm until she stirred, and then yanked her up into a sitting position.
“Aaargh!” she cried, confused and disorientated.
“Get up,” he demanded, venting a tiny portion of the anger he felt for his uncle on the confused prostitute.
Wrapping her arms around her body and shivering with cold, Angela stared vacantly ahead; a pale-faced zombie with dark rings under bloodshot eyes.
“Claude’s hungry. You need to sort him out some breakfast, and when that’s done, you’ll need to clean his wound and change his dressing.”
Angela sluggishly pulled her knees up to her chest. Sniffing back the snot that was trickling from her nose, she groaned as though she were about to die and let her forehead sag onto her knees.
“Are you listening to me?” Garston demanded, shoving her shoulder so hard that she nearly toppled off the edge of the sofa.
Returning her stockinged feet to the floor, Angela wiped her nose along the length of her forearm and sniffed some more. “Leave me alone, I don’t feel well.” The words were spoken so softly that they were almost inaudible, but the sentiment of self-pity they conveyed came through loud and strong.
Garston’s eyes narrowed. When he spoke, his voice was thick with scorn. “Fucking useless whore, pull yourself together and get on with it. When you’ve done as I’ve told you, I’ll sort you out something to make you feel better.”
Angela gave him a wild-eyed stare and then ran a trembling hand through her dishevelled hair. “I need something now. I feel terrible.”
That was the trouble with using addicts; once the drugs wore off and the downer began to kick in, they were unable to function properly or to think about anything apart from where they were going to get their next fix from.
It was pathetic.
Garston regarded her as though she were sub-human. “I promise I’ll make you feel a whole lot worse if you don’t get a fucking move on,” he warned her.
Even in that state, Angela knew a threat when she heard one. “Okay, okay,” she said through lips that were dry and cracked. “Just give me a minute to get my shit together.”
In the corner of the room, the hood of the sleeping bag was pulled back and Rodent’s bleary-eyed face appeared from within and he started scratching at the whiskers on his face. “Anything I can do to help?” he asked, groggily.
Garston nodded. “Make sure this worthless slag gets its sorry arse into the kitchen to rustle up some breakfast while I help Claude into the bathroom. If she isn’t in there by the time I return, I’ll hold you responsible.” With that, he turned and stormed out of the room.
◆◆◆
By half past ten, Winston had been toileted and fed – three slices of burnt toast with lukewarm beans splashed over them, and a mug of steaming hot tea to wash it down - and his wound had been washed. Garston hadn’t said anything while it was being cleaned, but he was worried about the state of it, and as soon as she finished applying the new dressing, he signalled for Angela to follow him out of the room.
“Do you think his wound might be infected?” he asked her as they walked back into the kitchen where Rodent was leaning against the worktop and shovelling cereal into his mouth.
Angela’s shrug was listless. “I dunno,” she replied, and from the lacklustre expression on her face, Garston could tell that she didn’t much care either.
“I don’t think it should be that red or swollen,” Garston continued, “and I don’t think it should be leaking all that blood and pus you had to wipe away either.”
Angela merely shrugged again, and Garston immediately felt the urge to slap her.
“It didn’t smell very nice,” Angela quickly added after seeing the look on his face. It was her first useful contribution to the conversation.
Garston
