FIFTEEN HOURS LATER, he was on home soil.
He was knackered.
He dropped dead on his bed and fell asleep quickly. Minutes later he was gasping for air. He rolled on his side, his head pounding like there was a resident jackhammer drilling in his brain.
He forced himself to get up, slowly.
He went to the kitchen to drink two glasses of water to hydrate then popped two painkillers down him. He sat at the dining table cradling his head until he was sure moving wouldn’t cause him to keel over.
He opened the refrigerator. There was nothing to eat. Everything was mouldy including a jar of mayonnaise. There wasn’t any need to peer into the jar; he could see the grey furry stuff growing inside as he lifted it to eye level.
The milk was rancid.
He threw everything out; it was better that way.
