Arthur opened his eyes and panicked.
He could not see a thing. Worse than that, he could barely breathe. His whole chest seemed to be compressed and his nose and mouth were blocked.
Keep calm, Arthur, he thought to himself, It's probably just... His brain failed to supply anything that it might be, so he decided to panic some more.
Some time and a lot of heavy breathing later, something clicked in his head and he attempted to raise it.
'Ow!' he said, as it throbbed painfully. Then he sighed. Raising his head by this small amount had pulled his face clear of the thick, fluffy duvet, allowing him to breathe more freely. It had also, however, increased the compression on his ribs. This was largely because he was lying, not on a nice flat bit of bed, but across Ford Prefect's legs, his weight magnified by the smaller surface area of contact, and the knobbliness of Ford's knees.
He struggled back onto the bed, his head thumping as it moved. The room danced around him as he tried to sit up.
'Eurgh,' he said, swallowing hard and hoping that the rising nausea would leave him alone in a minute. Beside him, Ford was stirring, the loss of pressure on his legs, or the general awakeness of Arthur had roused him.
'Ow!' he said, as his nerve endings sluggishly started reporting on his status.
'Ow!' he said again as he tried to move his legs for the first time and found that he couldn't. He looked around with half-closed eyes, and did not seem in the least surprised to see Arthur sitting next to him.
'Legs've gone,' he said matter-of-factly.
'Oh,' said Arthur, failing to make the connection between this statement and the fact that he had just been lying on them. 'E'scuse me.' He half rolled off the bed, clutching his head, and went to the little en suite bathroom. Ford heard some unpromising sounds and rubbed at his own face, his eyes still not quite daring to open, then managed to sit himself up. His feet hit the floor at the foot of the bed as he did so, but for all he knew about it, they might as well have been Arthur's feet.
He tried to stand up. He'd done this before, he was sure of it. You just sort of... propped yourself up on top of your legs and kept your balance up there while the legs did all the work. Unfortunately, Ford's legs were absent, presumed missing, and when he tried to balance his torso on top of them, they simply gave way and deposited him on the floor.
Arthur emerged from the bathroom looking pale and uncomfortable, and found Ford lying on his side on the floor. Ford looked up at him and smiled a brave sort of smile,
'You look like you need some food.'
Arthur blinked hard at him, turned on his heel and returned to the bathroom.
By the time he came out again, several long minutes later, Ford had propped himself up against the wall and was grimacing as the feeling came back to his legs and his nerves decided that on the whole, 'hundreds of hot knives' was the effect they should be relaying to his brain.
'Wha' time's it?' he asked through gritted teeth. Arthur looked at his watch. He had to move it backwards and forwards a few times to get it in focus, but at least the numbers seemed to actually mean something this morning.
'Eleven.' He paused and thought hard, then continued, 'We've missed breakfast. Have to check out in half an hour.' He sat down next to Ford. 'Your legs back yet?'
'Yes. They are,' said Ford dangerously. It should have been obvious. He'd put on enough of a performance about it. Arthur nodded,
'Shall we go then? I'll have to call a garage...for my car.'
Forty minutes later, they stood shivering in the cold air outside the cold-feeling inn. There was nothing like seeing the scene of the night before on the morning after to remind yourself just how much of a fabrication such nights were. Arthur felt distinctly like death warmed over, and although Ford seemed chirpier than him, he was still huddled into his thin jacket looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here.
Ford had said he would stick around until Arthur found out about his car. If it got fixed, he'd take a lift, if not, well, they could share the cost of a taxi. Arthur had agreed, finding that, despite his alcohol induced malaise, after the unpleasant wedding day he rather wanted the company.
The mechanic slammed the bonnet of the car back into place, making both Ford and Arthur wince.
'No can do, Mate,' he announced cheerfully, lighting a cigarette held between oily fingers. 'It'll have to be a tow. Where you headed?'
'Cottington,' said Arthur mournfully. The mechanic sucked air between his teeth and shook his head.
'None of our lads go out that far. Have to make your own way. Here--' he broke off, fished in his pocket and scribbled something on the crumpled page of a dog-eared duplicate book, 'That's your ticket and our number's up the top. Give us a shout tomorrow and one of the lads'll tell you how long it'll be, okay?'
Arthur nodded helplessly and watched the mechanic hitch his car up onto the back of the truck. As he finished, he removed the cigarette from his mouth, trampled the butt into the ground and grinned at Ford and Arthur,
'Good night last night was it?' He gave them a gleeful thumbs up, jumped into his cab and swung out of sight, Arthur's car bouncing along behind like the tin cans on the newly-weds' Bentley.
'Taxi?' asked Ford, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
Arthur exhaled a cloud of dragon's breath air and watched it blend into the grainy white sky. His head thumped hard in protest at the cold. He nodded, then wished he hadn't.
'It's probably better if I don't drive, anyway,' he said. Ford looked at him oddly,
'Feeling rough?' he asked, with genuine surprise, 'I'm starting to feel pretty good now, actually.' It was clear that he hadn't really registered Arthur's little bathroom trip, or the fact that none of his blood was making it anywhere near the surface of his skin, or the fact that his eyes wouldn't open fully with the pain of his headache. Arthur scowled at him,
'Well, really? Good for you. I, on the other hand, feel like crawling back into my coffin, so if you're feeling so flippant and...and, healthy, you can bloody well make your own way home!' Arthur turned and headed back towards the inn door. Ford saw his cheap lift disappearing and ran after him,
'Hey! Okay, okay, I didn't realise. I thought you wanted to share a taxi?' Arthur shrugged, then relented and nodded slightly.
'Okay. Just, keep your voice down, alright?'
In the reception, Arthur made his way to the public telephone, putting his head into the soundproof hood and feeling a deep sense of relief as it cut out all noise from the inn. The back-board was plastered with the usual selection of taxi firms and double-glazing specialists, as if the primary concern of most people, having spent time in a draughty old inn, would be to make sure that their own house was fully insulated upon their return. He dialled the easiest number he could see and was informed that forty minutes was the minimum wait at this time in the morning. He agreed anyway and ducked out of the hood to see Ford arguing with the man on reception.
'...He says breakfast is over and lunch isn't served on Saturdays,' he said irritably as Arthur approached. The receptionist looked bored and slightly aggrieved at having been torn away from his newspaper for this.
'Well...' said Arthur, intending to say that this was perfectly reasonable, given that he had been told the breakfast times and this was not a large hotel and so on...
'I've paid for breakfast,' Ford continued, sounding very hurt. Arthur considered pointing out that, actually, he had paid, but decided it wasn't worth the effort.
'I am entitled to food,' Ford went on, slamming his fist on the desk, making the receptionist, who had just drifted off into a pleasant daydream, jump violently and send a pile of papers slipping to the floor. He seemed to lose the will to fight.
'Look Sir,' he said, with forced politeness, 'I can go to the kitchen if it'll make you happy, and see if they have anything they can put together for you, but I can't promise anything, it's not something we usually do.'
'Good. Yes. Thankyou,' said Ford. He turned and grinned at Arthur as the man left,
'See? Ask and you get.'
'We haven't got yet,' Arthur pointed out, 'And besides, it's not their fault. If you wanted breakfast, you should have set the alarm to wake up in time.'
'I need food. You need food. Trust me, you'll feel better with solids inside you.' Arthur gulped at the word 'solids.' His stomach didn't much like the sound of that. Then he inclined his head to one side and looked intently at Ford. It seemed he had noticed Arthur's condition after all.
The receptionist returned and coughed,
'The kitchen say they can do you some bacon and eggs. Will that do?'
'How long've we got?' Ford asked Arthur.
'About half an hour.' Ford spent a moment calculating, then said,
'Yeah, great. Two of those. Where?'
'Since there's only the two of you, you can sit in the bar.'
'Can we get drinks?' Ford asked, hopefully,
'Ford...' whined Arthur, looking embarrassed. The receptionist eyed them suspiciously,
'The bar's not open. I can get the kitchen to bring you coffee if you like?' Ford looked disgruntled, but nodded, and the receptionist went away again.
Arthur allowed himself to be ushered through to the bar by Ford. He was not really sure why he was letting this man push him around so much. Perhaps it was just that he exuded confidence and seemed to have a solution to everything. Perhaps it was just that he was being taken in by the appealing fresh innocence on his face. He couldn't help feeling that this was concealing, rather poorly at that, a mischievousness bordering on the sly. He couldn't think why that was the impression he got, but it was, and he wasn't about to disregard it.
Watch it Arthur, he thought, You don't know who this man is. Just take it carefully.
Ford sat on one of the little banquettes in the corner of the bar, stretched his legs out inconveniently under the table, slid down on his seat, and stretched his arms up over his head. He yawned noisily and fished in the satchel he still wore on his shoulder. When Arthur thought about it, this bag had not been off his shoulder once in...well, in the whole, short time he had known him. Even when he was absolutely plastered, the bag had stayed put and, thanks to his rather precipitous changeover from awake to asleep, there it had remained all night.
Ford drew out a script of some description from the top of the bag and put it on the table. It was extremely dog-eared and looked as if it had been in the bag non-stop for about three years. He opened it up on the table and glanced at Arthur.
For some reason, he looked incredibly shifty, as if the script were dishonest in some way.
'Have you got an audition?' Arthur asked politely, trying to get a look at what the script was for.
'Uh, yeah, next week,' replied Ford. He looked down the scene-list a couple of times.
'What part are you going for?' Arthur tried again, when the silence became unbearable.
'Um...' This seemed to throw Ford for a minute, then he said quickly, 'The caretaker.'
'Oh,' said Arthur, trying to sound interested. Ford drummed his fingers on the script for a moment, then closed it and put it away. Arthur squinted at it as it went back in the bag.
'A caretaker in The Wizard of Oz?' he asked. Ford frowned and lifted the flap of his satchel to look at the cover. A moment's pause,
'...It's kind of a new version. I don't know. I'll probably just get chorus. If I get anything.'
'Do you sing and dance then?' asked Arthur, glad of something to take his mind off what his stomach and his head were doing.
'Um...' It was as if no-one had ever asked this sort of taxing question before and Ford was uncertain how to answer.
'I try not to,' he said at last, a look of desperation in his eyes. Luckily for him, at that moment the eggs and bacon arrived, which effectively scuppered Arthur's attempts at conversation. The concentration required merely to remain seated in front of the food without retching all over it was all-consuming. He forced himself to pick up a fork off the slightly sticky table. Ford was right, he knew. If he ate this, life would start to look rosier again.
By the time he took his first, reluctant mouthful, Ford had almost finished and was looking at him across his last forkful of runny yolk and crisped-up white. There was something...not quite right about that stare. It made Arthur's already jittery body shiver slightly, but it wasn't altogether unpleasant. It was as if he were being surveyed by something incredibly important, something he just hadn't figured out yet. There was the electric twang of destiny in the air, but he hadn't the faintest idea why. He decided it was probably the hangover. His eyes started to water. For pity's sake, did this man never blink? He looked down to shovel more egg and bacon onto his fork. He was starting to feel better. Not good, but definitely better. He looked at his watch, then back at Ford, who was still staring.
'Er...' said Arthur when he had finished his mouthful, 'Would you mind not staring quite so much? It's...well, it's a little rude, don't you think? Or do I have yolk on my chin or something?'
'No, no yolk,' said Ford, confused. He seemed not to understand that what he was doing was rude, yet he did not appear hurt by the suggestion that it was. Arthur's words just seemed to wash over him. He continued to stare. Arthur had run out of ways to combat it. He had asked politely and he had pointed out that it was socially unacceptable behaviour. Where could he go from there? Nowhere. There were no avenues left open to him. No forms to fill in, no managers to send for. All he could do was sit there and accept it and hope it stopped.
He finished his food under Ford's close scrutiny and laid his knife and fork down neatly at twenty-past four on his plate. He picked up his coffee mug. The coffee tasted foul with his hung-over taste buds, but he drank it anyway.
Someone from the kitchen came to take their plates away and presented them with what looked like an angrily inflated bill. Ford picked it up and screwed up his nose at it. He dug in his bag again and pulled out a battered-looking wallet. There was an obscene amount of money inside. Arthur gawped at it. Ford ignored him while he paid, but then glanced up and noticed the look on Arthur's face.
'Jus' got paid,' he explained, but Arthur would have said, if pushed, that perhaps he still looked a little shifty.
Five minutes later they were outside again, shivering and puffing as they waited for the taxi.
'It's never warm when I'm waiting for a taxi,' said Arthur, without preamble.
'What?' Ford asked, thinking he'd missed something.
'It's always freezing. It doesn't matter what time of year it is. It's as if the entire climate of the British Isles is determined to see that I never wait for transport in the balmy warmth of a nice summer's day,'
'Oh,' said Ford, 'I dunno. Maybe it is.'
The taxi pulled into the car-park and slowed to a halt in front of them. There were a few moments when the awkwardness of not knowing, as near-strangers, which of them was entitled to sit in the front, almost prevented them from getting in at all; then Ford said,
'You've got longer legs than me.' And hopped into the back.
Arthur felt a little shiver of something run from his spine to his toes as Ford mentioned the length of his legs. He cursed the hangover that was making his body twitch and twang like this, and got in.
'Where to?' asked the driver.
'Cottington,' said Arthur, 'And...I don't know. Where do you actually want to go, Ford?'
'Didn't you say at some point last night that your house was close to a pub?'
'Quite close, yes, but...'
'Then I'll go all the way with you and walk from your house.'
That little shiver passed through Arthur again, robbing him of any argument. He shrugged at the taxi driver and settled down to concentrate on not feeling ill during the journey.
Will Ford and Arthur's taxi ride pass without event? Will Arthur feel better by the time he gets home? Will the Author resist the temptation to inveigle Ford into Arthur's house and get him to administer the finest (unconfirmed) hangover cure known to humanoid-kind? Well, we'll see. Reviews are almost (but not quite) as good as waking up next to Arthur XD
