building collapsed, leaving him to face the fate he now knew he deserved. Deserved because she was lovely and brave and witty and clever – and innumerable other things he’d never know about her – while he was nothing.
What was he supposed to do now, with a life that had been spared for no reason? He didn’t know. He just knew he felt empty and stupid and useless. Most of all he felt nothing because he didn’t know what to feel. And that was what he hated himself for most.
Croaky voiced he asked, ‘How did she …? ’
‘How did she get home? She walked.’
‘What?’
‘She walked. You know, used her legs. Maybe she got the bus later. I dunno.’
‘How could she walk if she was dead?’ he asked, completely lost.
‘She’s not dead.’
‘You just said she was.’
‘I lied.’
‘Why?’
‘Teach you a lesson.’
‘What lesson?’
‘Not to go demolishing buildings on young ladies. In case your mother never told you, it’s bad manners.’
@!%%$*@@&$*!!! ‘So, what the hell happened to her?’
‘According to the emergency services, when they reached the scene, she was with you. She’d dragged you from the rubble, given you mouth to mouth, performed emergency surgery with her credit card and boot laces, then kept you going with heart massage till they arrived. Seems she’s some sort of hotshot doctor.’
Lucy retrieved a Gladstone bag from by her feet, placing it on her lap. Click, she opened it, pulling out a sheet of paper. ‘On my way in I grilled the ambulance crew in question. They had a little trouble – her having been fully clothed when they met her – but, using hypno-regression, I got ‘em to construct this photofit of her chest. It’s a bit vague but I think it captures the essence.’
She studied it further. They’re pretty good, though way too small for my purposes.’
And she held the picture for him to see. Indistinct, it reminded him of the flying saucer photos which sometimes appeared in The Wheatley Advertiser, only the exhibitor seeing in them what they purported to depict.
Lucy pointed out assumed areas of interest. ‘As you can see, they’re equally perky, which is unusual. Normally one’s perkier than the other. Why do you reckon that is?’
He shrugged blankly.
‘Of course no photofit’s entirely reliable. I’ll need to get some proper pictures.’ She made a note, paper on lap. Lank, green hair hanging over one eye, she murmured along as her biro wrote; ‘One … must be … as perky as … the other.’ The pen stabbed a full stop. She slotted the photofit back into the Gladstone, clicking it shut, placing it by her feet.
Danny contemplated the girl’s use of mouth to mouth resuscitation. ‘She kissed me?’
Lucy stuck the pen behind her left ear. ‘Only coz she had to. I’m sure she must’ve pulled a face while doing it. Anyway, how are you? You okay?’
‘I think so.’ He mentally checked; toes, feet, legs, fingers, arms, neck, head. There was no discomfort nor disconcerting numbnesses. The small of his back itched. He scratched it. It wouldn’t go away but that was all right, itching rarely happened to dead people. ‘I feel a bit weak,’ he said, finally finding something to complain about.
The tube in his arm slurped. He looked at it, concerned. ‘Lucy?’
‘Yup?’
‘What’s that liquid?’
She pointed at it. ‘This?’
‘Yeah.’
Leaning forward she scrutinized the tube. She unhooked it from his arm, stuck one end in her mouth and took a long hard suck on it that gurgled like a straw drawing on the bottom of a near empty glass. She reaffixed it to the tap on his arm.
He stared at the tap. He stared at his flatmate, horrified by what she’d just done.
‘Ribena,’ she shrugged and, bag in hand, left – swiping someone’s grapes on her way.
Danny frowned at the tube.
Ribena?
Boggy Bill had been replacing his blood with Ribena?
The Great Osmosis appeared from thin air, late afternoon, accompanied by billowing smoke and the opening chord of the Beatles’ Her Majesty. His stage magician’s cape swirled melodramatically. Thunderous black fumes belched from his bucket’s eye slits.
When Danny stopped coughing, following the smoke’s dispersal to all quarters of the hospital, the esoteric entrepreneur slammed a grocery box down onto the boy’s chest and boomed, ‘Oh, perfidious betrayal!’
Another cloud swallowed the man. And, with a final flourish, he was gone.
Coughing one last cough, Danny tipped the box toward him for a better look. Its contents rattled.
This was trouble.
Big trouble.
The Dr Doom Detection Pen was a cheap, see-through biro available at any stationer’s. It didn’t even write properly, failing on every other word. And the snot-green mug with the not-quite-on-right handle and full length crack? In what way could it ever be connected with the Green Hornet? The Deluxe Spiderman Webbing (snare any villain in seconds) was sellotape. But not good sellotape.
Danny dropped the biro back into the grocery box, with the rest of the junk. It was his property – Osmosis had always insisted – freebies from a sales rep who’d arrive once a month, dispense rubbish then depart without selling a single comic.
And there were the rats, two. He’d rescued them from the broom of the girl who ran the takeaway next door. She’d screamed hysterically when told he’d be keeping them because he’d felt all shops should have a pet. Each rat had had a five-pound note in its mouth, as though they’d entered the takeaway planning to buy a meal.
Osmosis had pooh-poohed the idea. ‘Daniel, my boy, rats rarely appreciate the value of money.’
Regardless, Danny had put the notes in a piggy bank on the counter, doing it in front of them so they’d know where it was should they need it.
Now he checked the grocery box. Inevitably Osmosis hadn’t returned the money with the rats. In the box, their noses twitched up at him. And he knew they deserved better than being squashed by broom heads, or having their money stolen by over-theatrical shop owners, or being unacceptable in hospitals when cuter animals would be welcomed as therapeutic.
Right!
