Burnout

Chapter 4

4

I wake up. Sit up. My head in a fog. Eyelids stuck together. I grapple on the bedside table for the alarm clock. It's ringing like a bastard. I forgot to reset the damn thing. I knock it off the table. Roll out of bed and onto the cracked brown tiles. Just gotta stop the thing ringing. On my hands and knees, I scrabble around on the cold, hard floor. I feel the shape of the vibrating clock. Pick it up. Hurl it against the far wall of the tiny studio room of the condo. It hits the wall and stops.

Thank Christ for that.

I open my eyes—my eyelids snap apart and I blink, rubbing away hard rocks of sleep.

Is it seven already? s**t, I feel like I only just got my head down.

I stagger to my feet in my boxers and t-shirt. Wander over to the window. Throw open the curtains. The California sun burns the film off my retinas. It's a shock to the system. But the fastest way to wake up.

I yawn and look around the small, basic studio. A sofa bed, a boxy TV with a wire coat hanger for an aerial, a two-ring electric stove, yellowing fridge and single, pale-blue counter top that looks like it's been self-harming. Oh, and a porcelain sink I use for washing my hands, my face and the dishes.

The toilet is in its own little cubicle where my knees wedge up against either wall.

Three-hundred grand.

Was last night a dream?

I scratch my crotch and try and remember. But there's a knock on the door.

It gives me a jolt. No one ever knocks on that thing.

I pad over to the door and peer through the spy-hole. There's a bendy figure in black. I unlock the door and pull it wide open.

The figure in black is a chauffeur in full suit and cap. An average-built guy with sandy hair and a broad smile.

"Morning," he says. "Charlie, isn't it?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Mr Speed sent me to pick you up."

"How did you know which condo—"

"I asked the supervisor. Ready for your first day?"

So I didn't dream it.

"Yeah, um, I guess," I say. "Just give me a minute—"

"Take twenty," he says. "I'll be in the car." He motions to a gleaming black Mercedes saloon parked by the kerb. "And pack a bag," he says, as I close the door. "A big one."