Sir Malcolm’s desk is heavy and in my weakened state, it takes considerable effort and pain to shunt it off the door. With the desk away from the door, enough to allow it to open slightly, I carefully open it a small amount so that I can see out into the lounge beyond. I daren’t move the desk any more until I am sure the coast is clear.
Through the open gap, I see in the dim light that the lounge is in the same condition as it was left in. No Rabids have broken into the area. Satisfied, I heave at the desk a couple more times until the door opens enough for me to get through.
As I leave the office into the larger area, I am suddenly self-conscious of my nakedness. I am used to it being a busy bustling workplace and here I am with my tackle out, about to streak across the lounge. At least the CCTV isn’t working, I hope!
My plan was to go straight to my office and make use of the change of clothes I keep in there. My stomach wants to direct me to the kitchen, though, which I suppose is a good sign. I am split between covering my modesty or going straight to the kitchen to try and eat something. In the end, I decide on the kitchen. I need energy, so I will attempt a small snack and then go to my office. If the snack goes down okay and settles while I’m getting dressed, I will return to the kitchen.
Crossing the lounge is a struggle and I have to pause at different islands of chairs and couches to lean on and rest. Finally, I make it to the kitchen and as tempting as it is to sit in one of the chairs as soon as I arrive and get my breath back, the first thing I do is go to put the kettle on. Stupidly, it isn’t until I have lifted the kettle to fill it with water, that I remember there is no power. Bloody idiot, I think as I drop the kettle back down, my craving for a coffee making me want to scream.
The kitchen table still has the remains of the food on it that Catherine arranged for our arrival. None of it looks very appetising now after having been there for a couple of days. I’ve eaten worse but decide to check the fridge. Excellent; there is a plate of cellophaned sandwiches on the middle shelf. My left hand manages to pick it up and I turn and place it onto the table, the Sig isn’t about to leave my right hand.
Every tooth in my head hurts as I chew the two sandwiches that I allow myself and my throat protests as it swallows them down. The food does go down though, despite a couple of urges and I have to make do with a can of coke I discovered in the fridge. Whether it settles or not, time will tell.
I could quite easily take a nap when I finish eating, and my eyelids weigh heavily. The caffeine in the coke is no substitute for a coffee and does nothing to combat my tiredness. I force myself out of the chair, however, ready for the long trek to my office.
At a slower pace than a decrepit old man, I eventually open the door to my office. On the right, next to the small two-seater couch is a tall cupboard. I open the door to the cupboard and retrieve the sports bag that is sitting at the bottom and take it over to the couch where I sit down.
The formidable struggle to get dressed takes time but is worth every strain of my body. I almost feel human again dressed in the black jeans and dark grey sweater. Pulling on my socks and tying the laces on my boots takes the most effort; my feet feel nice and snug in them once they are on, however. Maybe I am still human after all. The food has stayed in my belly and I believe it has given me some of my energy back. The clothes have warmed me and helped return some confidence.
I still feel like shit, just not as shit as I felt before.
Getting up from the couch, I go over to the mirror that hangs on the back wall. I look like death warmed up and I wonder if I actually am? The scratches down my cheek feel worse than I had feared they’d look. The three scratches are about an inch long and are quite thin, and the red swelling around the dark red centres makes them look wider. I touch one with my finger; the scab is dry and rough. If there are scabs, that must mean my body is healing them, mustn’t it? Perhaps they will heal up nicely over time, or perhaps I’m kidding myself?
My shuffle has developed into a slow, short-stepped walk as I go over to the windows that look over the city behind my desk. The morning is very dull outside, and the visibility is poor. Smoke is rising from buildings in the Paddington area and from buildings beyond in the city. It doesn’t look like the new dawn has brought any relief to London.
How on earth am I
