The Hand and the Hatchet

Chapter 17

Bell woke, sort of, but not really. His eyelids still felt heavy, glued together by his tiredness. Watery sunlight was tipping through the window, and he pulled the worn blanket up and over his eyes. He'd slept well, which he'd needed, but he still hadn't the strength of will to pull himself out of bed. The cushions on the couch had come apart underneath him during the night, and his hindquarters were resting on the bare material at the bottom, springs digging into him. There were already people up and about, he could hear them outside. It was early, he could tell by the way the light fell, probably about eight in the morning. He could already hear Ant outside. He didn't understand how he always had so much energy. He threw the blanket off, and then pulled it back on when he felt the morning crisp of the air on his shirtless body. He must've wriggled out of it at some point in the night. He pushed his arm out from under the covers and felt around for it. He pulled it under the covers and let it rest on his belly. His fingers traced the scarred and pockmarked flesh of his body. The long, straight ridge of scar tissue just under his left collarbone where he'd fallen on a tree branch and hurt himself. The knife wound next to his belly button. The mottled patch of flesh on his arm. He sat up and pulled his shirt on, and then changed his socks from a pair in his bag. Socks were important, the kept your feet from forming blisters, and blisters were a pain. If your feet got wet, hot, hurt, or tender, you were practically immobilised, and so a solid pair of shoes and a few changes of socks were vital. Tricks of the trade Bell had suffered to learn. He stretched. Neck cracked as he rolled it. His boots were next to his bag, one stood up and one fallen on its side. He dragged the upright one towards him, and pulled it on, doing the laces quickly. He repeated the same on the other foot. The person who'd given him his bedroll walked through, making for the back door.

"Hey. Thanks for this stuff" Bell said, nodding to the bedding.

"No problem, anytime" The man said. He wasn't quite a man, not yet. He was twenty or younger, and the youthful look still clung to him, his mousy hair extremely curly and skin radiantly clear and smooth. He was only a few years younger than Bell.

Bell folded the cover in half, and put the pillow on top before rolling it up. He left it on the couch and went outside. The temperature dropped when he stepped down into the odd-shaped garden. There were only a few people there, about five, sat in the same formation as the night before

Ant was waiting on a chair, sat forward resting his arms on his knees, his mess tin on the grass in front of him. Some food was being dished out one by one, and it looked like baked beans and something. Bell waved to Ant, who'd turned and caught sight of him, and then hurried back inside to fetch his own bowl. He returned, and sat on the chair to the left of Ant.

"Alright?" He said, not taking his eyes off of the ladle pouring food into his tin.

"Yeah, I'm okay, you?"

"Fuckin' starvin' but yeah. You sleep well?"

"Actually, I did, the guy sitting opposite you got me a blanket and stuff" Bell said in low tones.

"Thas nice of him, did you say thank you?"

"Yeah, I did thanks dad"

And snorted, but couldn't reply as his mouth was full of steaming hot food, fresh out of an expired can. The girl gave Bell the same, a bowl of beans and some suspicious-looking lumps. He wolfed it down, unable to care about the lump's origins. They all sat, few words being exchange around the food in their mouths. The pot hanging over the fire wasn't even close to empty, and he was tempted to ask for more, but restrained himself, as most of the group were still asleep, and hadn't eaten.

Adam's voice came from behind them "Ant, Bell, a quick word?"

Bell turned just in time to see his head disappearing inside. He looked at Ant, who shrugged, and got up. They went back inside, the morning dew sparkling on the trees. Adam was waiting in the living room.