Day nine: The hangover (continued)

Maggie reappeared a couple of hours later, her hair was dripping wet from the shower but she had a lit cigarette flickering between her fingers and generally looked slightly more with it.
          “It’s alive! It’s alive!” Sean called out, as Maggie lay down on one of the sofas, groaning softly to herself every now and then. The rest of the group tried to block her out by continuing to watch TV.
         “Guys, the fridge is making a noise.”
         “That’s what fridges do Maggie.”
         “Well make it stop, I’ve got a hangover and my head is splitting.”
         “It’s keeping our beer cold,” Sean pointed out.
         Maggie raised her head off the sofa. “There’s beer?”
         “What happened to your hangover?”
         “Hair of the dog and all that,” Maggie said, making her way over to the fridge and grabbing a bottle. “Where’s the bottle opener?”
         “We don’t know. You ran off with it last night and refused to tell us where you’d put it.”
         “Oh,” Maggie said, disheartened. “Oh well,” she sighed, staring forlornly at the bottle as she put it back in the fridge. “What are we gonna do today then?” She asked, as she lay back down on the sofa.
          “Dunno,” Sean and Rob said, not taking their eyes off the TV.
          Nigel was reading the paper at the little dining table and failed to answer her altogether.
          “Guys, you can watch TV at home!”
          “Shush. It’s getting good!”
          “It’s daytime TV!”
          “Ssh.”
          “Are you sure you don’t know where the bottle opener is?” Maggie asked again in hope.
          “No idea.”
          “Not a clue.”
          “I’ll get some water then,” Maggie said, begrudgingly. She walked back into the kitchen and stared out of the window over the sink as she filled a glass with water from the tap.
          “Guys,” Maggie started uncertainly.
          “What now?” They called out as one united, exasperated voice.
          “There’s a man in our back garden. In boxer shorts. Climbing out of a tent.”
          “That’s David.”
          “Who?”
          “Mr Jones.”
          “Who?”
          “Don’t you remember anything from last night?”
          “I remember playing pool and …” Maggie scrunched up her face in concentration. “Darts?” She finished, uncertainly.
          “He’s our landlord, he’s had a falling out with his wife.”
          “Divorced,” Nigel suddenly chipped in without looking up from his newspaper.
          “Ex-wife,” Sean continued. “So he’s camping in the garden for a bit.”
          “He’s scratching the back of his leg with what looks like a shotgun,” Maggie commentated.
          “That would be him,” Nigel said, again without taking his eyes off the print.
          “I need to start drinking less,” Maggie said, still staring out of the window at Mr Jones. “Or more,” she said, after a moments thought. “I can’t decide.”

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