Magic roundabout

I packed some of my things up at the Vicarage.

I found someone asleep on my bed on the top floor. His feet stank. I angrily shook him awake, a thin-faced man in his 20s, maybe even 30, who I’d never seen before, with collar length frazzled hair and a distant unconcerned expression on his face. One of Ben Beresford’s mental patient friends, who he’s presumably met at the hospital . . ..

I told him to get off my bed and he did, his glasses dangling askew from one ear, nowhere near his face, where they remained for the rest of the evening. . . He was quite polite and spoke with a sort of unnecessarily precise and slightly mad emphasis on each individual word. He said he’d felt tired and fell asleep on my bed.

“Are there any other beds in the house?”

I directed him down to Ben’s room where he fell asleep on his back, his head propped against the head-board of the bed, a cigarette in his mouth, his glasses still hanging from one ear.

He reminded me of Dylan from Magic Roundabout.