Rich Hawkins: The Last Plague

Someone had eaten the last of the pizza. Ralph growled. Cold air nipped at his bare arms.

Frank and Joel were asleep. He remembered the stripper through a haze of booze, and laughed.

Magnus was gone.

Ralph stood, put his hand on the sofa to stay upright. His bladder was swollen. His stomach gurgled and turned. He burped again. His heart was a heavy weight within his chest, swimming in acid.

The front door was open. Birdsong. He stumbled to the doorway.

“Magnus?”

No answer.

Thunder boomed far away. Dark clouds to the east.

Magnus was lying on the dewy grass, curled up, his arms wrapped around his chest. His clothes were damp. His glasses were askew. A crust of dried blood between his nose and top lip.

Ralph crouched and shook him by the shoulders. “Magnus, wake up. What you doing out here?”

Magnus opened his eyes, confused and groggy. The bones in his neck clicked when he turned towards Ralph.

“I had a nightmare,” he said, his voice small.

Ralph lifted Magnus’s left eyelid. He examined the eye for signs of something more exotic than beer and vodka. “Have you been smoking those Jamaican woodbines again?”

“I gave up weed a long time ago, Ralph.”

“Let’s get you inside.”

“I don’t think it was a nightmare.” Magnus wiped dew from his face. He looked up at Ralph, his eyes regaining some focus. He blinked. Drool glistened on his mouth.

Ralph helped him to his feet.

Magnus watched the sky as they went inside.

Later that morning, Frank popped two aspirin into his mouth and washed them down with water. He was sitting next to Ralph on the sofa. Magnus was at the kitchen table, head bowed, drinking coffee and eating toast.

“I feel like shit,” said Ralph, massaging his temples with his fingers.

“Join the club,” Frank said. “I need to brush my teeth.”

The toilet flushed from the other side of the cottage. Joel entered the living room, wearing a baggy t-shirt and boxer shorts. Homer Simpson slippers. His hair was stuck up in ragged tufts. He held his stomach. His face was pale. Watery, puffy eyes. His skinny legs were hairless.

Ralph grinned. “You look very sharp this morning.”

Joel collapsed onto the armchair, stared at the ceiling. He groaned. “I suppose the stripper was your idea?”

Ralph chuckled. “Someone had to liven up your stag weekend.”

“Yeah, cheers for that,” Joel said sourly.

“My pleasure. You’ve still got squirty cream around your mouth.”

Joel went to wipe his mouth but then realised Ralph was messing with him.

“Don’t be cruel,” Frank said. “Give him a break.”

“Fair enough. He’s been through enough.”

“Please don’t put any photos or video on Facebook,” Joel said.

“Oh, come on,” Ralph complained.

“Please, Ralph. Anya will kill me.”

“No, she won’t. Polish girls are very open-minded.”

“I’m begging you.”

“Don’t guilt trip me.”

“Please…”

Ralph stroked his chin. He shook his head. “Okay then. You spoil all the fun.”

“Where’s Magnus?” asked Joel.

Frank sucked on his inhaler, grimaced. “Out in the kitchen.”

“Is he okay? Has Debbie been calling him again?”

“No,” said Ralph. “It’s something else.”

“Like what?”

Ralph said, “I found him outside, asleep on the grass.”

“What was he doing out there? Is he back on the weed?”

Ralph hesitated. “I don’t think so. He said he had a nightmare…but then said it wasn’t a nightmare. His nose had been bleeding.”

“Is he doing coke?”

“Magnus wouldn’t do that shit,” Frank said.

Joel frowned. “Hope he’s alright.”

“I think so,” Ralph said. “He’s a bit shaken up, that’s all.”

Magnus appeared in the doorway, steam rising from a cup of coffee in his hand. A muscle twitched in his face. “I can hear you all from the kitchen.”

The other men said nothing.

Magnus eyed the three of them in turn. He took a mouthful of coffee and swallowed. “I went outside to have a cigarette. You were all asleep. I was looking at the sky. Then something else was above me. I fell down and it felt like I was being crushed. I don’t know what it was.”

“Are you sure?” asked Ralph.

Joel looked at Magnus’s nostrils for signs of white powder.

Magnus noticed him. “I haven’t been doing drugs, okay?”

Joel looked at him. “Sorry, mate.”

Magnus returned to the kitchen.

The room stayed silent behind him.

There was no more thunder. No rain.

The men spent the rest of the morning recovering from hangovers. Frank and Joel cooked fried breakfasts for everyone. Sausages, fried eggs, fried bread, mushrooms, baked beans and bacon. Ralph asked for black pudding and was told to go and buy it himself if he wanted some. Joel didn’t finish his breakfast, so he gave the rest to Ralph, apart from the mushrooms, which Ralph gave to Magnus.

In the afternoon Ralph played Frank at darts. They drank coffee between turns. Ralph had once played for their county. He beat Frank without trying too hard and he let Frank know it.

“You’ve got a dart player’s physique,” Frank told him.

Ralph smiled and threw a double-top. “I think that’s five games to nil.”

Frank put down his darts.

Ralph took the five pound note from Frank’s hand, folded it into his wallet.

“Well played,” said Frank.

“Don’t forget you still owe me for the stripper.”

“I’ll pay you when we get home.”

“No probs.”

Outside, the day grew darker. But rain still did not come.

Magnus turned off his mobile and put it his pocket. He gritted his teeth, rested his forehead against the kitchen table.

Debbie wouldn’t stop calling.

Magnus went outside. The clouds were like concrete. Summer was in its death-throes, although it had been a dreary summer anyway. Autumn was almost here.

“Ah, fuck it,” he said.

He took out his mobile and switched it on. He waited.

The mobile rang, vibrating in his hand. His ringtone was a Johnny Cash song.

Debbie was calling. He sighed, ran a hand over his shaven head.

He put the phone to one ear. “Hello?”

Debbie’s voice, pleading and pathetic: “ Are you coming home ?”

Joel needed to stretch his legs. The lukewarm shower hadn’t refreshed him. The water had seemed greasy. He had brushed his teeth twice to remove the taste of alcohol from his mouth.

The grass was damp. The hems of his jeans were wet. He walked the fields around the house. He wore a jacket to keep out the creeping cold. The breeze ruffled his hair.

He remembered parts of last night; the stripper dancing around him, her groin writhing in front of his face. She had touched his face, and her fingertips had been too warm and yellowed from nicotine. He remembered the others laughing. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if Anya found out.

But he hadn’t done anything wrong, had he? Why should he feel guilty when he had no control over what had happened?

Still, he felt like he had betrayed Anya, even though all he had done was lick sickly-sweet squirty cream from the stripper’s bellybutton. But that was enough for him. He was wracked with anxiety and the hot panic-fever of guilt. He was jittery.

He huffed air out of his mouth and frowned.

There was nobody out here. The fields opened out before him. Low hedgerows and oak trees. A family of deer were grazing in a field. The chirp and twitter of songbirds. A crow flashed overhead, squawking like it was mocking him.