Chapter 17
Peter
Ishould have gone to work, but I hadn’t. Not for any other reason than that I had to actually get out of bed to do so, and currently? I couldn’t. There were a million other things I should have done too, but where my brain made endless to-do lists? My body failed to cooperate with my minuscule willpower.
I’d been back home for…around a week, maybe more, my days becoming more hazy by the hour, and it was like everything had gone dark, all over again. I couldn’t even face ringing the boys, and anyway, we no longer had a landline and my phone?
I had no idea how to even solve the small problem of getting someone to deliver my phone to me, because I, for one? Was not returning to pick it up. The shame and fear washing over me in waves just thinking those kinds of thoughts.
Surely they could post it to me. Get one of the runners to…
Crap.
I turned over in bed, letting the smell of sweat and fear mixed with the scent of stale bedding hit the back of my nose.
Laundry. I might busy myself with that today. Return the many plates that were sat on my draining board. I’d eaten and cleaned them yet couldn’t face bringing them back next door.
I didn’t want to have another conversation with Mrs Patel. Not now. Not yet. Didn’t want to know. I was never going to watch any of it anyway, and nobody would be watching. It was a small web-based thing. Not quite the BBC, was it?
Maybe it was Friday, the faint sound of the refuse truck moving down the road. Bin lids slamming. Perhaps it was. Or maybe my hearing was just tricking me. Reality was just too much to handle, and hence? I chose not to engage with it at all.
Trying to get up and failing badly, I finally rolled into the bathroom to relieve myself, catching a glimpse of my dishevelled appearance in the mirror.
I looked like hell. My hair now too long and the beard all over my face was not an attractive addition. Patchy and weird, making me look way older than I actually was. I felt old. Old and grey.
And here was another idiotic knock on the door. Followed by the key turning again. Was this not my home? Was privacy not a thing?
“Peter,” she said, letting her eyes travel up and down my length. Not like that. This was Mrs Patel after all and no.
“I know,” I said weakly.
“I know,” she replied, her voice finally softening in concern. “You have a parcel. I kindly took it off the delivery man. He was most distressed by the state of your path. You need to get out and keep it clear. I told him you’d been unwell, but it’s simply not an excuse anymore.”
“I’ve not been unwell.”
“Sure.” She snorted, throwing a parcel on the kitchen table. “Are we getting dressed today?”
“Nope,” I said in sudden defiance. “I’m still on my sabbatical and can do whatever I want.”
“Of course.” She shook her head. “That Wren. The sixth episode was theatrical gold.”
“I don’t want to know,” I said sternly.
“I see.”
Nosy.
“Amara, I don’t want to talk about it. I really don’t.”
“The world hasn’t ended, Peter. Nobody cares. You just need to get dressed and go out there.”
“And do what?” I almost shouted, as she took a step back.
“I need my plates. We have company tonight, and if you want food, you’ll have to come get it.”
“You don’t have to feed me,” I said quietly. “I know it’s kind, and I appreciate it…” I raised my arms in defeat.
“You should watch that programme of yours. It’s good.”
