Bongola Smith
an excerpt

Knock. Knock knock.
“Mmm.” Scottys eyelids seemed to be glued together. Why wouldnt they just let him remain in bed for the rest of his life.
Knock. Tap, tap tap.
“Vaaater?”
“What?” Croaking and turning over and squinting around. Violent stabs of light from a small window.
“Do you vant some vaaater, sir?” a rough, singing, high-pitched feminine voice. At the door. Suddenly Scotty was conscious of a terrible thirst.
“Yes. Come in.” He concentrated mightily on opening one eye to see who was coming into the room, and to give some kind of impression of normality.
A tall, dark coloured woman trudged in with a bucket on the end of one arm, holding the other out to balance herself. She didnt bother to look at the lumpen guest in the small bed. She heaved the bucket up and noisily poured water into the pitcher on his washstand. The water steamed seductively. She marched out and thudded the door behind her. Scotty stared at the steam and collapsed back onto his pillow. A drink of water. He had to have it. Pain pounded in his brain. He felt nauseous. Breathe, breathe. The sick feeling subsided. Where the hell was he? Slowly, like wobbling treacle, his mind came back to him, and with a mighty effort of will, he turned his head and looked at the washstand again. Right. Elbow up. Wait till the room steadied. Sit up. Still okay, except for the agony drilling unmercifully into his head, from the back to the front. Or was it from the front to the back…. He closed his eyes and concentrated on gently gathering his wits. He had to do something today. But first, water.
He heaved carefully off the bed and staggered with bent knees over to the washstand. A huge, heavy, wide-lipped jug with blurry floral patterns in the enamel confronted him, still steaming calmly in a disinterested, in a practical fashion. Another deep breath as the floor swam upwards, threatening to destroy the progress made so far. Steady, steady. A rooster crowed outside the window, and Scotty winced. A fierce attempt to gather his strength, then grasping the curved, palm-cutting handle of the pitcher, he deliberately and carefully lifted and poured gingerly. Steaming hot water swirled into the wide enamel basin. Enough. Hot vapour wafted upwards, caressing his face and neck. Bliss. Cupped hands, hot, but bearable. A mouthful of the hot fluid - the poison of the night’s furry alcohol residue on his tongue spat out. Then another sip. He’d had tea that was worse, thought Scotty, gulping it down.