Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
The garage is freezing. The UK has been hit with a serious bout of cold weather. When I catch snippets of the news, they keep going on about an Arctic blast hitting the country.
Ha, of course. The year I’m homeless is the year we have record-breaking cold weather.
The bloody Arctic can keep its weather to itself, thank you very much.
Story flits about on my shoulder, making a fuss.
Her worried voice fades into the background of my throbbing temples.
I squeeze one of the bottles of water. The plastic bottle crunches underneath my hand, and a chunk of ice bobs about.
I’m disappointed but not surprised to find the bottles of water frozen solid.
I rub my ice-cold hand across my sweaty forehead.
“I’m so sorry about the water.” I should have put them in a box to insulate them better.
“Have you had enough to drink? I guess I could use some of the hot water we have to thaw a bottle, or you can have the boiled water from the flask when it’s cooled.
That might be better…” My voice fades off into mumbles.
My head is pounding, and my vision tunnels for a few seconds. The sensation is very much like being punched in the head.
Story rests her hand against my burning cheek.
The light pressure makes me look at her.
“We are both fine. Stop fussing, Tru. You don’t look at all well, and you’re so hot.
I can feed Dexter in the morning. I think you should get in bed and stay there.
Do you want me to call someone? Maybe Jodie, that nice witch? ” she says, her voice full of concern.
I try to smile to reassure her. “I’m fine, it’s just a cold,” I lie. “It must be from this weather. I’ll be better in the morning. I just need a good sleep.”
Dexter also chips in and meows at me as I pour the hot water into the hot-water bottles and stumble towards the shed to get ready for bed.
“I’m not working at the club anymore,” I say offhandedly as I tuck a hot-water bottle inside Story’s bedroom and one underneath my covers.
Not that I need one really… I’m radiating heat.
I quickly change into my nightclothes. I’ve taken to wearing a sports bra, thick socks, jogging bottoms, and a jumper instead of pyjamas.
I feel safer sleeping in clothing that I can run in.
I stuff my shaking body underneath the covers.
Dexter, who is banned from the shed, jumps onto my bed.
I groan. I left the door open. He proudly stands next to my head, front paws on my pillow, purring like a sports car engine.
His ginger paws pad the pillow, rocking my head from side to side.
I groan again and attempt to push him away, but he swipes me back and bops me on the nose with a pink toe bean.
I give up, and I hide my head underneath the covers.
“Dexter stop that. You know she’s unwell,” Story admonishes him. “You should do your duty and be on guard while she sleeps.”
“You tell him, Story,” I mumble from underneath my duvet. Instead of guarding—I roll my eyes, monster cat my ass—I feel the weight of him on top of me as he curls on my pillow and settles between my shoulder and my chin.
His soft purr lulls me into sleep.
When I awake he’s gone, and I can’t see Story anywhere. My eyes are almost stuck together, I can’t find the energy to open them fully, so I blindly reach for a bottle of water. My hand shakes as I drink a few frozen mouthfuls.
“Mert?” Dexter pads back into the shed.
“I’m okay, Dex, just feeling a little under the weather,” I husk out as I take another few mouthfuls of water. The frozen bottle creaks when I set it down, and my hand throbs. I huddle back under the covers. Shit, I feel worse.
In the back of my head, the sensible inside voice tells me I need to check the time. I won’t make it to work tomorrow, so I need to let Tilly know so she has time to plan a replacement.
Of course my phone isn’t underneath my pillow like it normally is, and I don’t know where my jacket is… I drift off before I can do anything about it.
Dexter’s concern turns into kitty outrage when I miss his breakfast, and when I don’t respond quickly enough, he ends up dive-bombing my face and attacking the covers until I heed his demands. I drag myself out of bed.
“Where’s Story?” I grumble. Perhaps she’s gone to work? My shaking limbs feel worse, not better. First the bruises, now this. What the heck is wrong with me?
I clumsily pull myself through the tight gap between the wall and shed and stumble into the garage.
My panting breaths fog the cold air, and black spots dance across my vision as I top up Dexter’s food bowls.
I groan when I find the cat food in the can is frozen.
It’s the gravy that’s icy. I have no alternative but to dish out the frozen chunks anyway, and I put extra dry food into his other dish.
To finish, I squeeze out some bottled water.
Just from putting out Dexter’s food, my hands are red, and they throb painfully.
I pull my jumper down and cover them the best I can.
My head pounds, and when I turn a little too fast, more black dots swim in my vision and my knees buckle.
I catch myself from falling and hang on to the table where I store all the cat food.
With determination and gritted teeth, I drag myself back into the shed and this time close and latch the door.
Weakly, I lower myself to the bed and put my icy hands between my thighs, missing my hot-water bottle. The one in my bed is now useless.
With shaking hands, I change out of my damp sweaty clothes. I undo the stopper on the hot-water bottle, pour the lukewarm water into a small blue bowl, and then give myself a refreshing—so freezing I almost lose a nipple—wash.
I pull on some fresh leggings and another jumper and then crawl back underneath the covers.
I really should message Tilly… I hope Story is okay.
Within the shelter of my dreams—I must be dreaming—heavy footsteps, voices, crunching, and ripping is background noise inside my fuzzy head.
With blurry eyes and no comprehension, I watch as my pretty, dangling fairy lights wink out, torn to shreds as the warm cocoon of my shed disappears with a crash.
In my dream the wooden shed around me folds like it’s made of paper. It folds away into nothing.
Scalding hot fingers touch my throat, making me jolt, and weak adrenaline gives me the energy for a moment to wipe the haze away from my mind. I blink my heavy eyes open and gaze into a pair of angry honey eyes. My heart jumps for a second then settles back into its sluggish rhythm.
“She’s alive,” says a relieved chocolaty voice.
My eyes flutter closed.
I don’t like this dream.
“She must be freezing.”
“You’re in so much trouble, my shadow,” a voice growls above me as a heavy hand gently pushes my loose, tangled hair away from my face. Then steel arms reach around me, and I am lifted from my bed, gathered into muscular arms. My cheek settles onto a solid chest.
“Grab all this shit. If she survives, she isn’t coming back to this dump—”
“Reow.”
“—and the cat.”
“Her hair is beautiful, like a colourful waterfall,” comes a gruff voice. “She’s pretty.”
“She. Is. A. Child,” growls the voice of the man who is holding me. It rumbles through his chest against my ear like Dexter’s purr. “If you look at her like that again, I will pluck out your eyes.”
What a dream, I think as everything fades.