Connor woke with a searing headache and blurred vision on the bottom bunk in another small room. At least he wasn’t tied up this time. He sat on the flimsy mattress and rubbed his head, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. He looked around the room. Harsh fluorescent tube lights tried to penetrate his skull.
He stood, groggily, and ran his fingers through his hair. Mouth dry, head pounding, bars on the door. This wasn’t the first time he’d ended up in jail after a bender. He went to the stainless-steel sink and ran the tap. He drank and washed his face and couldn’t help but feel disappointed that he wasn’t hungover and he was still trapped in the same nightmare.
“You’ve been out for hours,” came a voice from the top bunk. A voice so cheery and full of optimism, Connor wanted to punch its owner.
“Shut up,” he growled.
“You were snoring.” A face peered from the top bunk. Wide eyed and smiling. “Debbie brought you in.” The face formed a leering grin. “You must be special for her to be involved. I’m Dale, by the way.” He held out a bony hand.
“Tell me Dale, were you dropped on your head a lot as a baby?” Connor scanned the room for anything he could use to hit him with.
“I don’t think so. I don’t remember so well. I’m Dale, by the way.” Dale’s hand was still extended in greeting. Connor ignored it and Dale waved instead.
“Since when do we shake hands, Dick?”
“It’s Dale.”
“I haven’t shaken anyone’s hand in greeting since lockdown. Grabbed a boob or two.” Connor grinned. “That’s how the virus spreads. Morons like you shaking hands.”
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