“It had rained in the night, drumrolling on the caravan’s flat metal roof. His guts were churning. Dry mouth and pounding head. It was daylight, so he figured it would have to be at least 8 a.m. His watch was in the pocket of his jeans, and his jeans were on the opposite couch, and it was cold. He pulled the sleeping bag around his ears, groaning, his bladder fit to burst. Well into November and it was freezing. Maybe he’d end up sleeping in his clothes for the duration of the winter. Pity he co...uldn’t hibernate. If he lived in a caravan he might even not bother to wash. At least in Room 7 he could have a wash in the bath, even if the water was cold. That was important to him. Staying clean. His arse wouldn’t be clean, though; a bad case of the squits during the night had seen to that. No bog roll either. Old newspaper had done the job instead. He tried to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but his guts were still rumbling and he badly needed to piss. He shouldn’t have told Terry about a SCOPE prototype that was trialled in Africa, driving villagers to murder each other when it went live.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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