A Spot Of Bother

109

Jamie got out of bed and wandered into the loo.

There were knitted baby blue covers on the spare loo rolls and a set of hand-painted wall plates from the Costa Brava.

He’d woken up several times during the night, disturbed by a series of dreams in which he failed to stop grisly things happening to his father. In one of them Jamie looked down from an upstairs window to see his father, shrunk to about half his normal size and bleeding heavily, being dragged up the garden by a wolf. Consequently Jamie was rather tired and when he imagined the kind of breakfast that might be waiting for him downstairs (warm bacon with little knuckles of white gristle, stewy tea with full-fat milk…) it seemed more than he could bear.

He’d sleep on the sofa at his parents’ house tonight. Or in the marquee.

He packed his bags, checked the coast was clear, then tiptoed down the stairs. He was opening the door when the portly man-woman loomed out of the kitchen doorway, saying, “Would you like some breakfast?” and Jamie just ran.