24th September, 8 am. Prison cell.

[therealpm]

*Peter wakes up feeling groggy and disorientated.  Although not as bone tired as yesterday, his muscles still ache and cramp.  Something nags at the back of his mind, something important that he needed to do and he rubs his eyes, mentally replaying yesterday's events, trying to remember.  The first memory that surfaces- being shoved into the wards by Alastair, causes him to shudder and wince.

His fringe drops in his eyes and he pushes it back, noting with distaste the grittiness of mud on his scalp.  Still trying to recall what it was yesterday, he heads off to the shower, limbs protesting against the effort and back stiffened straight more from cramp than good posture.

It is not until he is beginning to wash his hair for the third time (he hasn't felt so filthy since secondary school and it is not pleasant), that he remembers: the conference.*

Fuck!

*He finishes washing, then towels of and dresses rapidly, nearly running (well, hobbling quickly) to the phone.*


Text received from 07### ######

John,

my presence is required at Labour conference next weekend.  Cancelling not an option.  At least one of the events is after dark.

-Peter

Comments

[bamfbercow.livejournal.com]

*John absolutely does not squeak when Peter turns to look at him.*

*John fetches the biscuits from their place under the head, quickly returns and hands them to Peter.*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter wonders idly whether Freddie would like a head. The flesh has mostly been eaten by mice at this point, there's really very little left of the oft tissue beyond a foul smelling stain and some ropey fragments.

He selects a biscuit, stale by now, of course, then closes the tin and hands it back to John to replace.*

Results should be available in the day or so.

*He carefully peels back the gauze The Machine has bound to his arm with medical tape and inspects the puncture wound.*

[bamfbercow.livejournal.com]

*John quickly replaces the biscuits under the head.*

...now what?