More came out. Strands of his own hair, long and ginger, tangled with what looked like cat fur (they’d never owned a cat). A bobby pin. The ghost of a cotton ball. Finally, with a wet, sucking sigh, the drain released. The water spun into a lazy vortex, then vanished with a hollow gurgle.
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. unblocking a bath
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. More came out
Liam sat back on the bathmat, victorious and revolted. He ran the tap for a minute just to watch it drain clean. Then he poured bleach down the plughole, lit a candle, and made a silent promise to buy a drain guard. The ghost of a cotton ball
He never did. But for one evening, the bath ran free.