Peter slowly regained consciousness.  He didn’t want to.  He wanted to sleep in, preferably for a month.  Failing that, he wanted to just die quickly, but his head and his bladder gradually forced him out of the woolly sleep.
 
This wasn’t his bed.  It was too soft, for a start.  Not a police cell either.  He managed to open his eyes on the third attempt.  It was dark, the only light from a digital clock throwing a blue glow that, even to his eyes, only suggested the shape of the room.
 
He was underground.  He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he could feel the reassuring pressure of earth all around him.  That was a blessing, at least.  No windows.  No furniture either, except for the bed and a bedside table.  The bed was pushed up into the corner of the room.  The bedside table held the clock and an unopened bottle of water.  He really wanted an unopened bottle of whiskey, but water would have to do, because some bastard had filled his mouth with glue overnight.
 
He prised himself into a sitting position, his feet dangling over the edge of the bed, and waited for his stomach to stop sloshing.  That was it. He was going to give up drink.  Not right now, of course.  Right now he needed a hair of the dog.  But later.  Maybe not give it up entirely, but he wasn’t going on another bender like last night.
 
Vague memories began to filter through the murk.  He should have eaten something, but he didn’t have enough money for food and booze, and he had needed the booze.  And now he didn’t have enough money for either, and no prospect of getting any.  He reached out for the bottle, unscrewed the cap and took a swig.  It was warm, but it helped.
 
“Hallo.”
 
“Jesus!”  Peter leapt across the room and whirled to face the bed.  Sudden nausea and dizziness sent him staggering sideways until his outstretched arm could steady himself against the wall.  The room was empty.
 
“Sorry.”  The voice was low and timid.  It was also oddly familiar.
 
“Where the blood and sand are you?” asked Peter. He squinted into the darkness.
 
“Under the bed.”
 
“Under the bed?”  Peter bent down and peered into the darkness.  The shadow under the bed revealed nothing.  “Under the bed?  Seriously?  What the hell are you doing under the bed?”  He caught himself making a mental check of his body.  His clothes were fastened and his backside intact, though the gurgling in his guts suggested that might be a temporary state.  “Are you some sort of pervert?”
 
“No, it’s my bed.”
 
“But under it?”
 
“It’s where I sleep.”
 
“You sleep on the floor?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Then why the feck do you have a bed?”
 
“So I can sleep under it.”
 
Peter frowned.  It was a ludicrous argument, but not one he could logically fault, at least not in his current condition.  He took a swig of the water again.  Who was he to judge?  He got nauseous on the first floor and felt insecure on clay soil.  Wanting the reassurance of a bed over you to sleep was really no different.
 
“So, what?  You’re a bogey man?”
 
“That’s what the human’s call me.”
 
“What do you call yourself?”
 
“George.”
 
“No, I meant… Never mind.  So, George, what am I doing here?”
 
“You weren’t very well last night.  I didn’t think you’d be safe in the street.”
 
Not very well.  Did he really think that or was it just a polite euphemism for being drunk and incapable?
 
“So you brought me home?”
 
“Yes.  Creteus says we should look out for each other.  Was that all right?”
 
“Creteus?  Oh, right, lanky social activist, right?  Well, I thank you.  So this is your place?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“It’s, um.”  Peter looked around the room, as much as he could see of it.  “It’s nice.  Basement, right?”
 
“Sub basement.  I don’t like the light. Sorry.”
 
“No, no it’s good.  I don’t like height.  Spent most of my early years underground.  A lot of my adult life, come to that.”  Not now though.  The sewer system of London would have to take care of itself without him.  Good riddance, but at some time the question of meals would present itself.  Rent.  All the little things in life for which merchants and landlords expected coin.
 
“I didn’t know where you lived,” said the voice under the bed.
 
“No, no it’s fine.  To be honest, come next week I won’t know where I live either.”
 
“What do you mean?”
 
“Doesn’t matter.  Thing is, I can’t repay you, grateful as I am.  Listen, do you ever, you know, come out from under stuff?”
 
“I stand behind stuff.”
 
“Yeah, sure, it’s just, it’s a little weird for me, you know?  Not being able to see who I’m talking to.”
 
“Sorry.”
 
“No, no.  It’s not important.  I just wondered.”
 
Peter released his hold on the wall and stood a little more erect.  Normally he could talk for Ireland, but aside from his headache and furry tongue, it was disconcerting talking to a shadow.  It was too much like talking to yourself.  The room had offered all it had in terms of subjects for conversation.  Besides, there were more pressing things than conversation.
 
“So, George,” he said at last.  “At the risk of being indelicate, does this place have a loo?”