whisperback

Lewis knows he has a hangover before he fully wakes up; it feels as though every cell in his body is dry and shrivelled and screaming for water. There don’t seem to be any embarrassing associated memories although he vaguely recalls a blonde in the toilets of one of the clubs they went to. That could just be wishful thinking although the scent of cheap aftershave and the coarse scratch of stubble linger in his imagination.

He buries his face in his pillow and the buzzing in his ears begins. With a groan, he screws his eyes shut and attempts to ignore the noise which is morphing into a strangely familiar tune.

Lewis opens one eye because dead composers tend not to infiltrate his hangovers (or, at least, they haven’t till now) and then he realises that his phone is ringing on his pillow: Mozart’s 40th Symphony in all its polyphonic, vibrating glory.

Blearily and rather bitterly, he reaches for it.

“’Lo?”

“Lewis! It’s Sorcha!”

“Sorcha…” repeats Lewis slowly and the word tastes furry in his mouth before he realises that that is probably residue of vodka.

“Your cousin, you gobshite! Didn’t you get my fax?”

“I know you’re m’cousin,” protests Lewis. He’s wincing slightly and rubs his head. Sorcha sounds impossibly cheerful for this time of… early afternoon, as it turns out. Lewis struggles upright and feels as though he has left half of his poor, dried-out brain on the bed. He lurches over to the fax machine and, sure enough, there is a fax waiting for him.

“When did you send it, Sorcha?” he mumbles, peering at the jumbled letters that slowly form into words and sentences before his tired eyes.

“Last night! Hurry up, would you? I’m downstairs! I don’t think your doorbell is working. I’ve been leaning on it for at least a minute.”

Lewis groans. “Why does everyone keep doing that to me?”

He goes over to the window and steps out onto the little balcony. “Look out below,” he mutters and there’s Sorcha, looking up and grinning. She’s carrying a cardboard tray with two coffees and Lewis could kiss her except that there are three storeys between them and, even if there weren’t, they’re just a touch too closely related for comfort.

“You’re not going to pee on me from up there, are you?” Sorcha shouts up to him and there are the fucking wolf whistles again. He thinks they’re coming from the same girls as yesterday but finds he doesn’t care what they think.

“Sorcha!” cries Lewis, managing to look both amused and embarrassed. “Here, let yourself in.” He throws the keys down to her and she catches them in one hand.

“You should take up cricket!” he says.

“You should get dressed!” she shoots back.

Lewis blushes and runs his fingers through his hair as he stumbles back inside. He sits on his bed and finally reads Sorcha’s fax.

Lewis baby,

I hear you’re in de big shmoke! I live over near Connolly these days. I intend to venture over to the south side tomorrow and I demand visiting rights and possibly your company in battling the bloody tourists on Grafton Street. Of course, you’re a bloody tourist now, aren’t you? I’ll take it easy on you so.

I’ll call over at 2, assuming you’ve survived the terrifying experience of drinking with Eoin.

Love,

Sorcha.

“Eoin. Shit.” Lewis needs to sit down and then he realises that he is sitting down. “Where the fuck is Eoin?”

He gets up and goes into the bathroom. The tiles are cold and he wonders if there are nerves connecting the soles of his feet with his head. As soon as his toes connect with the floor, his hangover intensifies with a brain-freezing jolt, complete with a swell of nausea, and that’s before he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

“Urble.”

The hair on the right side of his head is tufted up and he looks a little like a startled chicken. His eyes are horribly bloodshot and he really needs to shave. Sorcha isn’t renowned for her patience but he thinks that personal grooming is a necessity today.

Shaving takes quite some time and care because his fingers are trembling. Even still, he nicks his chin when he hears Sorcha letting herself into the flat and he swears profusely.

“Is that a customary Oxford welcome?” she calls through the door.

“Sorry, Sorcha! Just jumping into the shower! Won’t be a minute!”

“Lewis! This entire place smells like a distillery. God knows what you smell like! Take your time, for all our sakes!” Sorcha is laughing at least. It’s good to know that someone finds this funny. “I’ll just work my way through your personal effects and steal the valuables in the meantime. Just let me pass this coffee into you, yeah?”

Lewis grins to himself and opens the door just a fraction. Sorcha’s slender hand appears, bearing a large cup of coffee.

“Still black and no sugar, right?”

“Perfect,” he says gratefully as he closes the door. Leaning against it, he takes a long draft. “Oh, sweet nectar of life,” he sighs.

He steps into the shower and closes his eyes, happy just to stand still and let the hot water flow over his body. His poor dehydrated cells finally start to forgive him and he rolls his neck appreciatively. Lewis is entirely unaware of time passing; it’s as though his mind stops for as long as the water is running. He quite enjoys the temporary anaesthesia and the nothingness of it all. His world has shrunk right down to the space between the shower curtain and the frosted window and the steaming water washes away all manner of sins.

“Lewis? Have you fallen down the plughole?”

Sorcha. Of course, she’s still here.