“You can sleep when you’re dead.” Sam dropped the empty on the table amongst all the other dead soldiers and staggered to the fridge for a refill. Far off thunder sounded and a gust of wind listed the boat so he had to grab the edge of the table for balance. “You can sleep when you’re dead.” He muttered again and fumbled the top from another bottle.
He slumped back into his seat and carefully fingered the keyboard, index fingers finding the small bumps on the F and J almost naturally now. Yellow light from the bulkhead lamp spilled across his hands and for a time he was absorbed by the play of shadow across the wrinkles of his knuckles.
There was a distinct scent of shit in the air; not so different from the smell of mud flats at low tide; and it mingled with reek of diesel which had leaked into the bilge. Overlaying it all was the damp metallic odour of a thing long unused. Damp corners mouldering in the dark, and fungus growing on rotten wood, and the smell of rotten eggs.
“Pity about that fucken toilet.” His words were so slurred he could barely understand them himself. “Have to fix the cunt tomorrow.” He lifted the fresh bottle to his lips. “You can sleep when you’re dead.” He sipped and grinned. “But you have to fix the fucken toilet first.”
He placed his fingers back on the keyboard and began typing. You can sleep when you’re dead………