Reviews for Colette Davison

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My head is fucking killing me. My mouth feels like it’s been stuffed full of mothballs. I’m lying on my right side, and that arm is numb. A click echoes through the house. Was that someone closing a door? I wipe my left hand over my face and open my eyes. It’s too dark to see anything.

What the fuck happened last night?

Something whines. Door hinges?

Oh, right. I’m at Rufus’s holiday home in the middle of nowhere. Okay, so it’s not actually his. The house belongs to his granddad, but Rufus is allowed to use it when his granddad isn’t here fishing. The front door hinges have needed oiling for as long as I’ve been coming up here with Rufus and his family.

When we were kids, his family invited me here for a week every summer. Rufus, his younger brother, Kian, and I would go wandering for hours, exploring the woods, chasing each other through meadows of long grass and flowers, and sitting by the lake with our legs dangling in the water. I have lots of good memories of this tiny corner of Scotland.

But reminiscing won’t solve the mystery of my aching head.

The door closes. It’s either the middle of the night or so early the sun hasn’t come up yet, so I’m unsure who’s going where.

I, Rufus, Kian, and some of our friends are here for a weekend of drinking and lazing around. Well, they can laze around. I have work to do as soon as I find some paracetamol and a gallon of water to shift this headache.

A car engine turns on. What the fuck? Tyres crunch over gravel, and then it gets quieter. I try to turn towards the window, but something pulls against my right wrist. Someone groans. I try to move my arm again. Clink. Rattle. Something hard but also soft circles my wrist. What. The. Actual. Fuck?

I twist and flail around, groping for a lamp or a light switch. My neck clicks, and my back aches with the effort. Another groan, a little louder than before. I skid my fingers over a piece of paper before finding a bedside lamp. I flick it on. A golden glow fills the room, and I shut my eyes against the harsh light.

Another groan. “Well, that’s bright.”

Hold up. I recognise that voice.

My right wrist is tugged to the side. Clink.

“Huh,” the voice says.

I rub my eyes and prie them open. I’m lying face-to-face with Kian. Our right hands lie on the pillow between us. Pink fur circles our wrists.

“Huh,” Kian repeats. He lifts his wrist, pulling mine with him. “This must be someone’s idea of a joke.” He kneads his forehead with his fingertips. “So this is what a hangover feels like. I don’t recommend it.”

“Too late.”

“That sucks for us both.” He yawns and closes his eyes.

“Who the fuck would do this?”

Kian shrugs. “Probably Rufus. He never matured past sixteen.”

I sit, dragging Kian upright with me. “Where’s the key?”

Kian tugs me down again. “We can look for it after we’ve slept off these hangovers. Rufus will have it.”

I grunt. “I don’t want to go back to sleep. I want to get these damn things off. What the fuck are they anyway?”

“Handcuffs.”

“I can see that.”

“Why’d you ask, then?”

“Why are they pink? And furry?”