what my ‘cushion’ might have been, makes me want to scrub myself in Carbolic soap and douse myself in Dettol. Christ, what if it was unwashed underwear? That prospect made me want to throw up.
My rescuer flashes me his pearly whites. His teeth are crooked, but they suit him.
"I'm Tommy. Shug asked me to keep an eye on you."
He extends a hairy but muscly arm and despite what I’ve been through, I relax. He knows Shug. He must be okay. Shug wouldn't have told him about me otherwise.
"Someone's been eating all the porridge."
Shit. The words are out my mouth before I can reel them back in. Now I've come across as a tittering schoolgirl.
Underneath the curly black hair, Tommy grins.
"Aye. Big fan of the porridge, me."
My face reddens. "Sorry, I didn't mean."
Can’t assume every one of Shug’s pals is a crook and has been an inmate at one of Her Majesty’s Prisons.
There's that twinkle again that extends to his eyes. They’re the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. They remind me of the sea on a bright summer’s day. Aware that I’m staring, I have to force myself to look away. Don't want my savior to think I'm turning into a stalker.
"No worries," he says. "Bet Shug's phonebook does read like a cast list of Oz ."
"So, is that how you know Shug? From jail?"
I've been racking my brains and I can't remember my brother mentioning anyone called Tommy but then he didn't exactly hand me his address book to flick through.
To be honest, since I’d left home I hadn’t had much to do with Shug or his life, except for the occasional prison visit. It upset me to see him waste his life. Even when he did something thoughtful, like remembering my birthday and given me a present, it was tainted by the knowledge he’d probably nicked it out of some store. Either that or some poor warehouse security guard had been clobbered over the head so robbers could grab it and sell it onto Shug. Any time he got me anything I’d shove it in a drawer, waiting for the police to come looking for it. Michael used to find that amusing. He’d laugh and say I was his bit of rough.
I wait for Tommy to tell me how he knows Shug, but he doesn't and I'm going to ask him again when he turns the radio on and starts singing along at the top of his voice to a Radiohead track. He's not singing the correct words, he's making them up as he goes along and they're all swear words.
Hotel California comes on and the words are changed to f this and c that. Tommy is a madman.
Despite the fact my hair's plastered to my face, I’ve got rope burns on my ankles and wrists and my jaw's throbbing from where Yates tried to punch a hole in it, I can't stop howling with laughter.
This is surreal. One minute, I'm trapped in the trunk of a car and heading for a watery grave, the next I'm sitting here with a hunky stranger who's shouting out random swear words instead of singing the right lyrics. My life is crazy town.
"You do know that's not the words, right?"
I’m laughing so hard it’s a struggle to formulate the words.
He blushes to the roots of his hair.
"Aw, sorry, I didn't realize I was doing that. Too used to being in the car myself.”
His expression turns serious. “I met Shug through Narcotics Anonymous.”
This is news to me, I knew Shug dabbled, but not that he had a problem - unless being a magpie was an addiction.
"We hold regular sessions in jail," he explains. "I’ve been clean for ten years, so I lead the sessions."
He absorbs my gaze. "You didn’t know, did you?"
"No."
"Your brother was doing well. He’d been off the stuff for a few months and was on a methadone program. He was planning to go to college when he got out. Get a trade. Make your parents and you proud. That’s what he said."
The color drains from my face. I hadn’t known my brother at all. He was trying to change and I could have helped him. Now it was too late.
Tommy raises his eyebrows. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"
My face burns as I turn to look at him,
My rescuer flashes me his pearly whites. His teeth are crooked, but they suit him.
"I'm Tommy. Shug asked me to keep an eye on you."
He extends a hairy but muscly arm and despite what I’ve been through, I relax. He knows Shug. He must be okay. Shug wouldn't have told him about me otherwise.
"Someone's been eating all the porridge."
Shit. The words are out my mouth before I can reel them back in. Now I've come across as a tittering schoolgirl.
Underneath the curly black hair, Tommy grins.
"Aye. Big fan of the porridge, me."
My face reddens. "Sorry, I didn't mean."
Can’t assume every one of Shug’s pals is a crook and has been an inmate at one of Her Majesty’s Prisons.
There's that twinkle again that extends to his eyes. They’re the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. They remind me of the sea on a bright summer’s day. Aware that I’m staring, I have to force myself to look away. Don't want my savior to think I'm turning into a stalker.
"No worries," he says. "Bet Shug's phonebook does read like a cast list of Oz ."
"So, is that how you know Shug? From jail?"
I've been racking my brains and I can't remember my brother mentioning anyone called Tommy but then he didn't exactly hand me his address book to flick through.
To be honest, since I’d left home I hadn’t had much to do with Shug or his life, except for the occasional prison visit. It upset me to see him waste his life. Even when he did something thoughtful, like remembering my birthday and given me a present, it was tainted by the knowledge he’d probably nicked it out of some store. Either that or some poor warehouse security guard had been clobbered over the head so robbers could grab it and sell it onto Shug. Any time he got me anything I’d shove it in a drawer, waiting for the police to come looking for it. Michael used to find that amusing. He’d laugh and say I was his bit of rough.
I wait for Tommy to tell me how he knows Shug, but he doesn't and I'm going to ask him again when he turns the radio on and starts singing along at the top of his voice to a Radiohead track. He's not singing the correct words, he's making them up as he goes along and they're all swear words.
Hotel California comes on and the words are changed to f this and c that. Tommy is a madman.
Despite the fact my hair's plastered to my face, I’ve got rope burns on my ankles and wrists and my jaw's throbbing from where Yates tried to punch a hole in it, I can't stop howling with laughter.
This is surreal. One minute, I'm trapped in the trunk of a car and heading for a watery grave, the next I'm sitting here with a hunky stranger who's shouting out random swear words instead of singing the right lyrics. My life is crazy town.
"You do know that's not the words, right?"
I’m laughing so hard it’s a struggle to formulate the words.
He blushes to the roots of his hair.
"Aw, sorry, I didn't realize I was doing that. Too used to being in the car myself.”
His expression turns serious. “I met Shug through Narcotics Anonymous.”
This is news to me, I knew Shug dabbled, but not that he had a problem - unless being a magpie was an addiction.
"We hold regular sessions in jail," he explains. "I’ve been clean for ten years, so I lead the sessions."
He absorbs my gaze. "You didn’t know, did you?"
"No."
"Your brother was doing well. He’d been off the stuff for a few months and was on a methadone program. He was planning to go to college when he got out. Get a trade. Make your parents and you proud. That’s what he said."
The color drains from my face. I hadn’t known my brother at all. He was trying to change and I could have helped him. Now it was too late.
Tommy raises his eyebrows. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"
My face burns as I turn to look at him,
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