The Missing and the Dead

37

The alarm-clock radio sprung into a spirited accordion-and-fiddles rendition of the Barenaked Ladies’ ‘One Week’.

Logan puffed out a breath. Groaned. Reached out and hit snooze.

Five more minutes.

He turned over and flinched. The world was full of dirty-blonde corkscrews. A breath pulled in a mouthful of hair.

‘Gnnn …’ Helen Edwards rolled over. Blinked at him. ‘Wht time ist?’

He flinched again. The words had oozed across the pillow in a wave of what could only be described as broken-drain stink. He angled his mouth away, in case his own morning breath was as bad. ‘Nine.’

‘Too early.’ She draped an arm across his chest again, hooked her leg around his. Closed her eyes. ‘Sleep.’ Then opened them again and stared at him. ‘What’s that?’

Warmth bloomed in his cheeks and ears. He scooted away until he was barely hanging on to the edge of the bed. ‘It’s a morning thing, OK? It … Look, I told you I was naked in here!’

‘Logan-’

‘Nothing’s going to happen. It’s just …’ He fumbled about on the floor for yesterday’s pants. ‘You’re not exactly a bag of spanners, and certain male bits have a mind of their own, and can you please stop staring at me like I’m a sex offender.’ He pointed at the far wall. ‘Look over there.’ Then hauled his pants on under the duvet. Half climbed, half fell out of bed. Turned his back so she wouldn’t see the awkward bulge. Struggled his way into his jeans.

Helen peered out at him, through a mask of curls. ‘What happened to your stomach?’

Logan ran a hand across the knotted scars, then pulled on a T-shirt. ‘I got stabbed. I died for a bit. I got better. No big deal.’ He grabbed a towel from the dresser. ‘Look, I’ve got to take a shower. Go back to sleep if you like. It’s OK.’

‘You’re blushing.’

He backed out of the room. Collided with the doorframe and came within an inch of falling on his backside.

Smooth, Logan. Really smooth …