...Silence. She tried to sleep again but she was fretting. There should be more of a kerfuffle. There shouldn’t be silence. He’d gone down but hadn’t come back up. She mentally kicked herself for not being able to leave it alone, but she couldn’t… “Are you alright?”
The colossus made the snort of one being startled out of sleep
“Yep, yeh” it said rather too quickly and she imagined a tousled head cracking awake and looking from left to right with eyes too, too heavy. 30 years ago, Laura had answered in exactly this way when Mr Eastwood woke her with a sarcastic question in Friday afternoon double history.
She wondered whether to go out and help him, but she was cosy inside her sleeping bag, and knew that extricating herself from it and the tent would mean lots of blind unzipping, cold wellies, a trip to the hideous, putrid, vomit inducing loos in the dark and then re-zipping, resettling, re-warming when she returned. Not to mention the whole helping- a –pissed- stranger- to- find- his -tent thing. Even if he’d been sober, it’d have been a tall order. She reminded herself that she was having a break; finding some ‘me’ time; she needn’t be on humanitarian duty.
Sigh! Somehow, that didn’t feel quite right.
From her left, a Welsh voice muffled with sleep, tinged with annoyance and soaked in beer rasped
‘Spanner, get your arse in ‘yeur. What the fu-ck yew up tew?’