All the Small Things (part 6)
Friday, not quite dawn
Tom rolled onto his back for the millionth time, sighed and pushed himself up, squinting to see the clock in the dim glow from the night light.
Bugger. Five minutes. It felt more like five hours. He flopped back onto the pillow and folded his hands on his stomach.
He's just a kid. What kind of shit could do that to a kid?
Outside his window, a blackbird trilled over the distant purr of early traffic.
At least someone's having a good morning.
He yawned and scratched his chest, pictured his fingers scraping on bruises and jerked his hand away.
He's just a fucking kid.
Tom shut his eyes, but they wouldn't stay closed. Dougie was exhausted, he was… No wonder he wanted to sit. And then, he makes one mistake. Danny fixed it in ten seconds, but what did you do?
That look on Dougie's face…
And now this. It shouldn't have, how could you let it happen?
He checked the clock again, shook his head, lay back, and his gaze drifted across the posters on his ceiling. It stopped at the fat ginger cat surrounded by a mountain of bags and boxes.
When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.
Giovanna gave you that one. You are the cat, she said, and Danny is the dog. The poster was funny, but it never made much sense until now. Get up, move, do something productive, find a distraction at least. Don't just lie there.
Maybe you'll think of something.
He shaved and dressed quickly. On the way down to the kitchen, he stopped outside Doug's door, eased it open and peered into the room. In the half light, he made out the slow rise and fall of the duvet. He put his head further round the door.
Two bleary grey eyes turned towards him.
Tom waggled an imaginary cup, backed out of the room and went downstairs. He'd filled the kettle and set out two mugs by the time Danny came into the room.
“There all night?”
Danny shook his head. “Only bout an hour. I woke up and…” He shrugged.
“Is he OK?”
Another shrug. “Sleepin, anyway.”
The kettle boiled, and Tom filled the mugs. They stood together, waiting for their tea to steep.
“This isn't your fault.” Danny lifted his hand and rested it on Tom's shoulder.
Tom pulled away. “Isn't it?” He lifted his teabag, dropped it in the sink, crossed to the table and sat down.
Danny followed him. “Feel guilty as you like about your temper, I won't stop you. But you didn't hit him. We need to find the bastard who did.”
Tom watched a cluster of bubbles circle in his mug, then nodded slowly.
“Harry were in a bad way last night. Wouldn't say owt, though.” Danny tested his drink, blew on it a couple of times.
“How about you?” Tom took a sip.
Danny pursed his lips and stared at the floor, clenching his fist over and over. He opened his mouth, shut it and let the breath out through his nose instead.
He looked sideways at Tom. “You're going out?”
“Tesco. Two sick kids in the house, we'd better get some food in.”
Danny nodded. “Heard from Fletch?”
Tom looked at the clock. “Too early. He phoned back last night, said he'd call them first thing, see what he could do. He wasn't happy about the short notice, but these things happen, he said. I think he's still pissed off after last time.”
“Good man.”
“He's trying.”
They mouthed a word to each other and grinned.
Tom slurped at his tea, then looked again at the clock. “Anything we need?”
“Black puddin?”
Tom rolled his eyes, took a final gulp from his mug, and picked up his keys.
⇐ Part 5 - Part 7 ⇒