“Right,” he muttered. “Fine.”
He pulled out a dark, sodden clump that smelled like a wetland grave. A wave of nausea passed. He dropped it into a plastic bag and went back in. unblocking a bath
Next came the wire coat hanger, straightened with brute force and guilt. He fed it down the plughole, twisting blindly. The metal scraped against something soft and unyielding: a wad of something ancient. Hair, probably. Soap scum. The film of a hundred showers and a dozen half-melted bath bombs from the Christmas before last. “Right,” he muttered
He fetched the plunger first—the small sink-sized one, which was optimistic. Three hard pumps sent a belch of foul air up through the drain, but the water level didn’t drop. It just shivered, as if mocking him. He dropped it into a plastic bag and went back in