Reformed (Responsible Adult #3)

Wake Up Call

"Bollocks!"

Micky slammed his palm down on the bedside alarm to stop the incessant shrill loud enough to awaken the whole damn idyllic Welsh countryside. He scrubbed a hand over his face, collapsed into the soft pillow and tried to get a grip on his pounding heart. Closing his eyes, he hoped for at least another five minutes of solitude and drifted off into the comfort of dreamland, until the next loud blast made him bolt upright.

"Fucking hell." Micky curled his hand into a fist to whack the persistent clock that was doing its job well.

the electric drill sergeant and groaned. He squinted through the searing sunlight that always seemed far too low in the sky than it ever had been in Heathwood, possibly because it wasn't blocked out by all the tower blocks in this part of the world. And, minus the high-pitched bleeps, the room was forced into an eerie silence. Like most mornings. Occasionally, the tweet of a bird fluttering past the open bedroom window, or the bleating of sheep and mooing of cows would welcome him awake. It could have been worse. He was getting used to it. Slowly.

He reached out to feel along the bed and met empty sheets, duvet scraped back in an almost perfect triangle and a dipped circle in the middle of the vacant pillow. An open book, spread out on the page it had been left at last night, perched on the night stand along with a pair of folded-up glasses. The sight warmed Micky, a little. Which wasn't that much of a feat—it was early September and he was snuggled under a winter tog duvet. But still, the sentiment was there. Briefly. Until the loud scream from downstairs startled him.

Micky bolted upright. "Flynn?"

He wasn't given a reply. He listened, but the following, now deathly, silence dragged on. He kicked free of the duvet and swung his legs to bundle out of the bed. It was too sodding early for all this shit. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he trudged over to the wash basket piled high with dirty laundry and grabbed the nearest thing. After hopping into a pair of work-out shorts, he yanked open the bedroom door. The noise he was met by made him wish for the silence.

Another loud scream, one he knew belonged to his brother, pierced through the walls. Micky bolted out of his bedroom, across the corridor and rammed open the door to his brother's room. Blackout blinds closed, bed unmade and no-one in it.

"Flynn!" He stomped over to the adjacent bathroom and shoved open the door with his shoulder. Empty. Nothing. "For fuck's sake!"

"No, no, no!" Flynn's wails bellowed through the house.

Micky frantically checked along the top floor. Five doors, each one shut. This farmhouse was too fucking big. Hide and seek had taken less time, and probably far less enjoyment, back in his two-bed mid-terrace house in the Heathwood suburbs.

Growling, he pelted down the stairs, scraping his hand along the banister, and skidded through the entrance hall, into the living room. He clenched his fists into tight balls at the sight. Curtains still drawn, with discarded toys and crayons littering the floor. Remnants of liquid and food stained the high-pile squared rug in front of the cast-iron fireplace. The fire that was roaring flames and absent of its gated guard.

Micky bundled over to the fireplace, careening around all the torture hazards. He grabbed a pint glass of water that had been left by the side and chucked it over the flames. The hissing and crackles only just managed to drown out his beating heart. Throwing the glass to the floor and coughing through the smoke and steam, he twisted on his bare feet and listened.

Scurrying off to the back kitchen, Micky ground his teeth at the spilled milk drenching the marble surfaces and the cereal box hanging precariously on its side, clearly a victim of the early morning massacre. Spinning first one way then the other, he noticed the front door was unlocked. The heavy gust of wind from outside made it bang against the frame.