All the Small Things (part 9)
Friday breakfast
“This is great. Best breakfast I've had in ages.” Doug's words barely made it around the last mouth-stretching piece of his bacon, cheese and mushroom butty. He chewed, swallowed, raised his mug and saluted the others with a five-second belch.
“Dougie!”
He put on his who-me expression. “Really, guys, we should do this more often.” He sipped his coffee and looked around the table. Not much was left, just three half-bitten slices of black pudding, and two dwindling platoons of toast soldiers scattered over the crumb-strewn battlefield between Harry and Danny.
“Thanks, dudes,” Doug said, almost to himself.
“Yeah, good one,” Tom echoed. He moved his spoon along the row of boxes, wavering between flakes, puffs, hoops, and shreds.
“So, what are you gonna do today? Ha! On guard!” Danny stabbed at Harry with a toast dagger.
“Try to catch up on some writing,” Tom said.
“It's 'en garde', you muppet.” Harry swatted Danny away, snapping the end off his toast. He picked up his mug. “Any word from Fletch yet?”
Tom shrugged.
“On guard. That's what I said. And you broke my sword.” Danny gave Harry a hurt look and popped what was left into his mouth. “What about you, Doug?”
“Umm, I think I'm just going to stay in and try not to get pregnant.”
Harry snorted, and coffee trickled from his nostrils. Danny and Tom howled. Doug smirked and slid lower in his chair.
“Anything else to go in dishwasher?” Danny looked around, spotted a dirty glass on the counter and went to retrieve it.
Tom's pocket began to ring. He pulled out his phone and flipped it open.
“Hi Fletch.” He held a finger to his lips. “Not a lot. Harry's better, but Dougie isn't a very pleasant sight. What's the news?” He bit his lip, his eyebrows sank. “They can't. You told them?”
No way, mouthed Harry. Tom wagged his free hand at him.
“Oh. So obviously it has to be today.”
Danny shook his head, then pointed back and forth from Tom to himself. Doug pulled his feet up onto the chair, wrapped his arms around his knees and began rocking to and fro.
“Look, Fletch, I'm not sure…” Tom rolled his eyes. “I really don't think they're well enough. What if just Danny and me go along? They could sign something we could take with us. What else do they want? Photos… Heroes… Save the planet… Where do they get these original and amazing ideas?” He jerked the phone away from his ear and gave it a filthy look before putting it back.
“OK… OK, look, I'll see how they're feeling. But warn them, just in… Yeah, OK, Fletch. Thanks for trying. See you in a bit.”
He closed his phone and stuffed in in his pocket.
“They want all of us. A bunch of fans won the chance to meet us today. They're already in town, arrived last night. That's why they can't change days.”
He looked round the table. “Well, what do you think?”
Danny shrugged. Harry threw up his hands and slumped back in his chair.
“Dougie?”
“They came a long way to see us. We can't let them down.” Doug closed his eyes and rested his head against his knees.
Harry sat up and turned to Tom. “Why didn't you tell us about the meet and greet. I thought it was only a photo shoot.”
“Don't blame me. It's the first I knew about it. Fletch never said anything.”
Danny shook his head. “It's them lot. Fuh-la-shits. Remember last time, when they wanted me and you to-” He looked at Doug, and in a split second was kneeling by his chair.
“Doug?”
He was hunched forward, head resting on his hands between his knees. His eyes were shut tight, his mouth hung open, jerking slightly with each gasp of breath. His face was the colour of porridge.
“What's wrong, mate?”
Doug suddenly held his breath, then let out a moan. “Oh no…”
He half rose, half fell from his chair and scrabbled across the floor. They heard his feet race up the stairs, a door bounce against a wall, a weird liquid cough…
Harry's chair flew backwards as he launched himself towards the hall.
Danny grabbed Tom before he could follow. “Don't,” he said. “Phone Fletch.” Then he took off after Harry.
Harry took the stairs three at a time and slammed to a halt on the door frame.
Doug had almost made it. His knees slid in a thin spatter on the tiled floor, one hand gripped the edge of the bowl, the other was clamped over his mouth, muffling his coughs.
Harry knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“It's all right, Dougie, let it go, don't fight it.”
“Sorry… I thou-“
Every muscle in Doug's body went taut; the breakfast gushed into the bowl. He coughed, spat, strained, tried to take a breath and promptly heaved again. Another gasp, another heave.
Harry wrapped an arm around him. “Come on, slow down. Just take a little breath, a tiny one. That's it. Now let it out, slowly. Another one, in… out…”
He looked back at Danny. “Get some water, mate.”
Doug retched again.
“No, Fletch, no way. He's practically turning himself inside out right now. He's… Yes, seriously. Can't you hear him?” Tom held his phone in the air.
“He can't go, not in that state. Yes… we know, and we're really sorry… Well wouldn't 'Five colours in her hair' make a great front page headline?”
He spun around. “No! We're not leaving him here on his own.”
Tom stormed between the table and the sink, then whirled, kicked a chair and sent it skidding across the floor into the wall. It just missed Danny as he ran in from the hall.
Danny jumped back and stopped in the doorway.
“Because I don't want to come home and find him lying dead in his fucking puke, all right?”
Tom stood, red-faced, breathing hard, then started pacing again. Danny crossed to the fridge and grabbed something, then headed back towards the door.
“Sorry. I'm sorry. I know you… I understand that. But he's, he's…” Tom leaned against the oven, his free hand tugging at the back of his neck. “He's really sick.”
Danny waved, held an imaginary telephone to his head, waved it back and forth between them, then pointed towards the ceiling. Tom frowned, then raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“All right, how about this? Harry stays here with Dougie, Danny and I go, and we'll phone them. That way the fans get to talk to them without…”
He paced back and forth. Danny reappeared.
“Thanks Fletch, you're a star. OK, yeah, see you there.” Tom shut his phone. “How's Dougie? Is he OK?”
“Rough, but Harry's getting him sorted. He went for it?”
“Yeah. Thank goodness.” Tom crossed the room and picked up the fallen chair. “Whatever anyone says, you, Jones, are a genius. Come on, we've got about ten minutes before the car gets here.”
Harry reached up, spooled off a handful of paper and held it out. Doug took it, wiped the the mess from around his mouth and nose, dropped it in the bowl and pressed the flush.
“Finished?”
Doug nodded and tried to stand. Halfway up, the sole of his trainer slipped on the soiled tiles, his leg shot out from under him and his forehead drove into Harry's arm. The drummer's wrist struck a deep note on the porcelain rim.
“Close one.” Harry shook his arm, then helped Doug back onto his knees.
Danny appeared in the door with two bottles of water, twisted one open and put it in Doug's hand. Doug sucked a mouthful from the bottle and instantly gagged. He leaned forward, coughed out the water and started to heave again.
“Breathe, Dougie.”
He inhaled, regained control, and rinsed a second time.
“Crap. Sorry.” He shuddered, emptied the bottle into his mouth, then spat the water into the toilet. “I'm sorry.”
“Never mind. Ready to move?”
Harry offered his hand, pulled Doug upright and stood him on the dry floor, then handed him the second water bottle.
Doug crossed his arms over his chest, took short breaths. He looked at the mess on the floor, his shoes, his knees.
“Just leave it.” Harry waved at the soiled clothes. “Drop that stuff here; I'll sort it. Go chill for a bit.” He rested a hand on Doug's shoulder a moment, then kicked off his own shoes and headed for the stairs.
“Where does the cleaner…?”
⇐ Part 8 - Part 10 ⇒