But Susan just turned on her heel and stormed off.
No idea how late it was, but the hotel was in darkness as Roberta felt her way along the ballroom wall and through into the bar. Where she helped herself to a half-full bottle of Lagavulin from the rack behind the counter. Removing the cork with her teeth and spitting it away. Swigging a proper-sized mouthful as she staggered out through the conservatory doors and into the night...
Roberta forced her eyes open, but Susan wasn’t in the bathroom any more. Not sure if that counted as falling asleep, or passing out. Probably a bit of both.
Grey light oozed in through the net curtains, presumably so no one could see you on the toilet, pooping. Or vomiting your whole innards out.
Now she was awake, the hangover rushed back in like asurging tide, grabbing her brain and tossing it roughly against the rocky shore. Stuffing it full of angry herring gulls and vicious haddock. But at least there was nothing left to puke up.
That was something, right?
A bright side.
Urgh.
There was an orchestra of bastards trapped inside her skull, doing death-metal covers on bin lids with sledgehammers. And they were crap at it too.
She crawled her way up the towel rail and tottered over to the sink. Stared at the wrinkly horror in the mirror. One side of her face all creased from using the toilet seat as a pillow.
Roberta unbuttoned her vomity shirt and dumped it on the bathroom floor, where it could be all crusty without her, as she filled the sink with cold water and stuck as much of her head as possible under the surface.
Maybe, if she wasreallylucky, she could drown in here.
At least that would make the orchestra stop.
But she surfaced instead, staring at the dripping monstrosity in the mirror. The one in the wrinkly skin and fusty grey bra. The one whose stomach was a measles-dotted mass of itchy midge bites. Then thunked her head against the cool glass. Raised her voice so she could be heard in the other room. ‘He was disrespecting you, what was I supposed to do?’
No reply.
One thing you could always rely on Susan for was an industrial-strength sulk.
‘He grabbed your backside! If someone grabbedmybackside you’d deck them, wouldn’t you? Bloody hope you would...’ Roberta lowered her voice a bit. ‘At least, Ithinkhe grabbed your backside.’ She blinked at the bloodshot eyes in the mirror. Had a scratch at the midge bites. ‘Maybe it was me?’ Nah. Louder again: ‘I’m pretty sure it was him!’
She scooped up a double handful of water and sploshed it on her face.
Still nothing from Queen Of The Sulkers, so Roberta dried her face on a fluffy towel and tried to stand up straight again. ‘Susan?’ Shuffling her way to the door.
The bedroom curtains were open, letting in more insipid sickly light. Rain battered down from the charcoal sky, leaching all colour and life from the world. Or at least the small, misty, soggy bit visible through the window.
‘Come on, Susan, don’t be like that, I’m hungover I need...’
But Susan wasn’t there: the duvet was thrown back, the bed empty, the bedroom door lying wide open. Then a scream slashed its way through Roberta’s hangover: distant and terrified.
Susan.
Oh no...
5
‘SUSAN!’ Roberta sprinted across the bedroom to where a pair of crossed claymores were mounted on the wall above the fireplace, along with a wee round shield. She grabbed the handle of one and yanked. Bloody thing wouldn’t move. Some idiot had bolted it up there.
Another scream, from somewhere out in the corridor.
No time to sod about with immovable swords, grab a weapon!
An antique-looking chamber pot sat on the table under the window. It’d have to do.
She snatched it up by the handle and barrelled out into the corridor.
