Chapter 296
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Darren woke up with a pounding headache.
He woke up with more than that, truth be told, but the headache was the most immediate symptom of trouble, followed promptly by the taste of dead weasel in his mouth (or perhaps stoat, as it was a richer flavour that indicated he had stayed away from the promised vodka and remained on the offered ale instead). His right eye had forgotten what it was designed to do; the left had somehow retained its contact lens, and was gleefully stabbing his frontal lobe with ludicrous amounts of sunlight. Death by UV poisoning via a spiteful retina. What a way to go.
He sat up, promptly wished he hadn’t, and lay back down on his front. Better. No sun in sofa cushions, and anyway, his head ached to the point that even his hair wanted to hide.
It had been a good, good night.
He fumbled blindly for his phone, and when enough minutes without agonising pain in his eyelids had ticked past, he slid one back to peer at his phone. One o’clock in the afternoon. Not bad. Four or five texts, mostly from Jayden (and one from Scott, probably about the pictures Paul had been posting online all night). He ignored them. Reading anything longer than one new text message took more brain cells than Darren currently had.
Priorities. Death could wait for a moment.
He lurched off the sofa, staggering into the kitchen with his hands clamped either side of his skull to stop his brain falling out (it was definitely loose in there, he could feel it rattling around). Paul’s house generally looked like a bomb had hit it, and today was no exception. Darren vaguely remembered that they’d attempted to make bacon sandwiches when they’d got home. At four in the morning. The kitchen smelled disgusting now, and he ground down on the desire to retch into the sink.
Instead, he opened the fridge and liberated an entire carton of orange juice.
Returning to the sofa, he burrowed in his bag and came up with the blister packet. One painkiller, down the hatch. One stoner pill, down the hatch. And then he drained the carton. It was Paul’s fault—match Darren’s drinking his fragrant, shapely arse—so he could lose some juice to make Darren felt better.
He sent a text.
To: Jayden
Time: 13.11
Message: death by sunlite. v hungova. i leve al my stuff 2 u. luv u xxx ps taken my preg pill b4 i die xxx
Darren buried himself in the sofa and went back to sleep, to the dulcet tones of Paul groaning in pain upstairs. He missed the reply, half an hour later, and would not pick it up until the evening.
Love you too, idiot :) See you Saturday xxx
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28
Jayden arrived at Ethan’s tidy little terraced house at around half past ten on Saturday morning.
The house was a hive of activity: cars were double-parked for the next fifty feet either side of it, and the front door was wide open. A dumpy blonde woman who was definitely Ethan’s mother, by the face on her, was corralling some lanky teenager into holding still for some photographs being taken by a balding man in his sixties who was equally definitely Ethan’s dad, by the heighton him. The taxi struggled to pull up; Ethan’s house had a driveway barely fit for a Fiat 500, and the activity and narrow street meant it was almost entirely blocked off.
“Sorry,” Jayden said, paying the disgruntled cabbie, and stepped out into Paul’s hands.
“There you are!” Paul said, and hugged him, to Jayden’s surprise. “Train issues at Euston, was worried you weren’t going to make it.”
“We always come in at Waterloo,” Jayden said, frowning.
“Good, then,” Paul said. He was dressed in fine grey suit trousers, but otherwise socks, trainers and a white T-shirt. He looked shockingly dark all of a sudden. Jayden typically barely noticed Paul’s skin tone, but surrounded by Ethan’s collection of Swedish-blond relatives with their milk-white skin, even Jayden felt tanned.
“Recovered from Thursday?”
“Just about.” Paul grinned. “Daz was fine, by the way,” he added. “Hungover as fuck, but no weird mental shit happened. Kept an eye out, said I would.”
Jayden squeezed his elbow. “Thanks,” he said, but Darren had been right: the little fraction of time apart, with somebody else doing the watching out, had let Jayden relax. He felt better too. He felt like this was going to be a really good weekend. “How’s the groom?”
“Shitting himself,” Paul said and cackled. “You’d think he knocked her up and his father-in-law’s waiting with a shotgun. He’s terrified. I’m on Ethan-duty; Darren’s getting ready upstairs. Here.” He towed Jayden into the kitchen and shoved a paper plate into his hands, piled with assorted biscuits and cheeses. “Take that to him. Ethan’s old lady wants everyone to eat something before we go, as the reception meal isn’t until like three.”
“Did he take his pills this morning?”
“Ah, dunno,” Paul said apologetically. “He was up well before me—I know, I know, but it’s cool, he was working out. I have a rowing machine.” Jayden relaxed again; Darren getting up early to work out was common enough. He did it when he was on lates sometimes. “His overnight bag is up there with him, though, so you can check.”
Jayden nodded, taking the plate and heading for the stairs. He glimpsed Ethan in the living room, standing waiting for some aunt or other to tie his cravat for him, and looking pasty-white and shaky. “Congratulations!” Jayden called to him as he went up the stairs, and Paul dived into the room to begin what sounded like yet another pep-talk.