Саймон Бествик - The Devil and the Deep - Horror Stories of the Sea

A moment later I heard another noise from the stall. This was more of a grunt. It was followed rapidly by another, broken in the middle by several panting intakes of breath. And then one more. Long, low, and painful-sounding.

“Shit,” the guy said, in a low voice. “Ah, fuck.”

“You okay in there, pal?”

The words came out without conscious thought. There was silence from the stall, and I realized the guy maybe hadn’t heard my warning cough earlier. Awkward.

But then he made a groaning noise again. It was five seconds before it tailed off this time.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding wretched. “I’m sorry.”

I was well-oiled enough to be breezy about the situation, and it was something of a relief to be talking to a fellow American after a couple hours parsing foreign accents. “I’m just glad I didn’t have whatever you did. What was it? An entire bowl of jalapeños?”

“No.”

“Hot sauce? Stick to the brands you know, is my advice. Some of those local-brand bad boys will put you in a world of sphincter pain if you’re not used to them. I’ve been there, trust me. Avoid anything with Ghost Chili in it, for sure.”

“Nothing like that. Just…”

There was a sudden and very loud growling sound, evidently from the guy’s guts. Then a sploshing noise.

And then—wow.

I mean, holy cow . One of the worse stenches I’d ever experienced. Maybe the worst. There’s that saying about how your own farts never smell as bad as other people’s, but seriously. This was bad .

I abruptly realized I’d finished pissing and there was no reason for me to be there anymore. I hooked myself back into my pants and muttered a “Good luck with that, buddy,” farewell while I took the single step from the urinal to the washbasin—again realizing just how drunk I was when I managed to bang my shoulder into the clearly visible corner wall. The smell had blossomed further and was so very bad that I considered going rogue and leaving without a hand-wash, but (though I won’t spend the ten frickin’ minutes some guys will, like they’re about to perform heart surgery and have spent the last hour with their hand up a cow) the habit’s too deeply ingrained.

I held my breath, did a water-only rinse and grabbed a paper towel. The guy groaned again as I was making a hash of drying my too-wet hands, the paper tearing into damp shreds. There was another growling sound and I flapped off the last remnants, knowing a similar noise had prefigured the smell last time and having no desire to experience the second wave.

Too late. This time the sploshing noise was shorter and louder and far more explosive. I had my hand on the handle to the outside door when I heard something else, however. It was quiet, a sound he’d tried his hardest to keep inside—a kind of focused, tearful gasp.

“Shit, dude,” I said, stepping back from the door. “You don’t sound good at all.”

“Sorry,” he said, quietly.

“Look, is there someone out there that I should tell… like, a friend, or something? I could let them know you’re having a moment, and will be back out in a while?”

“No,” he said, quickly. He sniffed, hard. “I’m fine. I’m just… It feels really bad.”

“Definitely not a chili-related malfunction?”

“Haven’t eaten any in days. And it’s not… Look, it’s not my actual asshole that hurts, okay? It’s…”

He broke off, and groaned again.

The second wave of the smell had hit me now, and it was a struggle to speak in a non-strangulated tone. “Is it the Norovirus?” I’d endured that back when it was new and fashionable a decade ago, and it’s not a lot of fun.

“I don’t think so. I had that a few years ago. It’s fast and liquid. And it sucks but it doesn’t actually hurt .”

“This hurts?”

“ Hell yeah.”

I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation when there was a beer and convivial company waiting for me, but it would have felt rude to simply walk out. “Though not at the point where stuff, uh, exits?”

“No. Inside. Like there’s a fist squeezing your fucking guts. And lets go, but then squeezes again, even harder.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s really not. And it came on super-fast. I was hanging out in the bar, having a blast, and suddenly there’s this searing pain. I got here just in time. Look, I’m Carl, by the way. Carl Hammick. From the Madison office.”

“Rick Millerson,” I said. “Boston.”

“Oh, hey. Any update on the RX350i?”

“Still delayed.”

“I figured.”

“Keep that to yourself until Saturday, though. I’m doing an announcement thing on it.”

“Sure. Rather you than me, pal.”

“Tell me about it.”

I was about to wish him well and get the hell out but it occurred to me that the guy could have touched a bunch of stuff on his way in. I’m never sure how communicable stomach bugs are, but—especially with the presentation to make—this guy’s problem was one I really didn’t want to have.

I stepped back to the sink and washed my hands properly, using plenty of soap. From now on I’d be making the longer trek to the other bathroom, too. While I did this there was a grunting sound from the stall, and a sharp intake of breath. I rolled my eyes. I’d had enough of this scene now, especially the smell.

“Another wave coming in?”

“I think so,” he said between gritted teeth. “Holy crap, this feels even fucking worse.”

He made a non-verbal sound. This time it was an actual sob, hard, fast. Followed by another.

I was trying to work out what I could possibly say that would be reassuring but not too weird when I realized my phone was buzzing. I pulled it out and saw Shannon’s ID on the screen. I was torn between not wanteing to answer—especially in these circumstances—and knowing I probably should. One of the reasons I tolerate Shannon’s tight-fisted travel bookings and pay her significantly more than I have to (and in fact stole her from another office, somewhat controversially) is she’s the best PA I’ve ever had, or even heard of. That includes knowing how to deal when I’m out of the office. Reminders pre-set on my phone, remotely updated. Digest email of where I need to be and when, and with whom, and why, delivered to my inbox at 6:30 every morning. If necessary she’ll send a brief text to alert me to late-breaking changes, but she won’t call unless it’s something I’d look dumb for not being right on top of—like some fresh disappointment in the slow-rolling train-wreck that is the fucking RX350i.

The guy in the stall grunted again, harsh and loud. There was a sudden bang on the door to the corridor. I flipped the lock before anybody could come in.

“Busy,” I said, loudly.

Whoever was outside rattled the handle and banged on the door once more, but then seemed to go away. Shannon went away too, so I guess it hadn’t been that important after all.

“Thanks, man,” Carl said. “Bad enough having you in here. No offense. But I’m not selling fucking tickets.”

“I hear you. And look, I’m going to leave you in peace, okay? When I’m gone… maybe you could bunny hop out of there and lock the outer door? Give you some privacy, right?”

“Sure, if I ever get a chance to get my ass off this…”

He stopped talking suddenly, making a sound as if he’d been punched in the gut, and a moment later I heard that bad stomach-growling noise again. Shorter, but really loud.

“Christ,” I said, reaching once more for the outer door—but my phone started ringing again. It was Shannon, again. If she was pinging me multiple times then I really had to engage. “Look, uh, Carl—I’m actually going to have to take this call, okay?”