Chapter 6: Porridge—PeterPeter didn’t think he’d sleep. He didn’t do well in unfamiliar, undefended territory these days, which was partly why his bivvy in the stoke-hole was right at the back corner, wedged behind the boiler and the crates. He sometimes thought of himself as a sick fox or cat, crawling away to lick its wounds.
And his nightmares were sometimes full Technicolor with an audio reel of his own shouts. He hoped that didn’t happen tonight.
That was pretty much the last coherent thought he had. The room smelled like it wasn’t used much, but it was warm and the bedding was clean. It was a long time since he’d had a proper pillow rather than a bundled-up coat.
He arranged it all to his satisfaction, climbed in, climbed out again to switch off the light at the switch by the door
