He stood in the conservatory shivering, barefoot and naked in the morning air.
Slowly, he pulled himself up to peep over the edge of the bed. Vince was an indistinct lump, mostly covered by an eruption of bedding and pillows. There was dark blood all over the place… Vince was going to be so pissed when he came round and saw the state they were in… Christ.
‘Bucket, water, stove,’ Bodie said, pointing, keeping the instructions simple enough for even Doyle’s addled brain. ‘Be back in a minute.’ It was closer to twenty when Bodie reappeared– the chickens had put up a good fight. He was grinning like the mad bugger he was and holding a limp hen in each hand.
They’d argued briefly about the name – Paul Smith seemed sadly trite – and sent him on his way as Paul Honey.