Falling Sideways (43 page)

David sagged. ‘Screw it,' he said.

‘That's the most sensible thing I've ever heard you say.' John took a long step back and vanished. ‘Well,' he said, ‘take care of yourself. I think you're about ready now.'

‘Ready? Where are you? Stop fooling about and stand up where I can see you.' David looked round, but there was no sign of John, and his weight had lifted from David's mind, so that when he reached out, there was nothing there.

He counted to ten. ‘You don't fool me,' he said aloud. ‘I know you're still here, somewhere. Look, I'm not in the mood for silly games.'

Nothing. It was only now that John had gone that David realised what his presence had looked and felt like, the landmarks in his mind that had always been so familiar that he only knew they'd ever been there now that they were irrevocably gone. ‘John!' he shouted. ‘John, Dad, stop it, it isn't
funny
!'

‘Hey, that's great. You never called me Dad before.'

He whirled round, but there was nothing there; and when he played back the impression of the words, he realised that he hadn't heard them or even felt them in his mind. The thought had been his alone, and yet it had somehow come from John, transmitted like a recorded message down centuries of selective breeding and genetic manipulation. And then he realised:
bang on schedule, right down to the last half-second
. And now he was on his own – genuinely alone, for the first time ever.

He wasn't sure he liked the feeling very much.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the less it appealed to him. Being on his own like this, he felt— No other words for it: lonely. Lonely, in the way that someone living in a treehouse a hundred feet above the ground might feel if the tree suddenly stopped being there.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a small piece of paper tucked behind the windscreen wiper of the van. It hadn't been there a minute ago. He pulled it out, but the wind teased it out of his fingers for a moment, and he had to snatch if back before he could look at it – two lines, in scruffy, cramped handwriting and thick pencil:

Gosh, David thought. Then on impulse or instinct or both, he turned it over, and saw that the neat, bold handwriting on the other side read—

Dere Warden. Tax disc form in poast. Yores, J Smith.

– And, of course, no way of knowing which way round it had been. (For what it was worth, there was no visible tax disc on the van windscreen.) David looked at it, one side and then the other, for well over a minute, before reaching the only sensible conclusion. Both sides. Simultaneously.

The hell with it, he thought. He didn't like being alone, but fortunately he didn't have to be. Quickly he reached out, turned the catch on the workshop door and pushed it open—

‘Where the hell,' demanded Philippa Levens, ‘where the
hell
have you been?'

CHAPTER TWENTY

A
nd that, David muttered to himself, would've been a perfect point at which to end the story, with the main issue sort of resolved, and an implied happy-everafter scowling horribly at him across the threshold. But it doesn't work like that. All that happens when the story ends is that the film crew packs up its gear, pays its bar bill and breakages, and moves on to its next assignment. Life goes on, and happy (whether ever-after or only from-time-to-time, in spots) is in the eye of the beholder. Besides, right now he felt that a better analogy would be two unexploded bombs left over from the war.

‘Sorry,' he said meekly. ‘I got arrested.'

Some women have the knack of expressing the phrase Oh-for-crying-out-loud wordlessly, with the tiniest movement at the corner of the mouth. ‘I know,' she said. ‘I was here, remember? You
do
remember me, don't you?'

‘Yes, of course I . . .' (Memo to self: get out of the habit of ducking into the short-pitched delivery) ‘I got arrested,' he repeated. ‘But it's all sorted out now, there won't be any more trouble. So—'

‘It's all sorted out now.' She gave him a milk-curdling glare. ‘You couldn't phone, of course, to let me know you were all right.'

He considered pointing out that for most of the time, he
hadn't
been all right. Policemen had been pointing guns at him, and accusing him of serious crimes. Fortunately, he realised in time that the truth is not always a boy's best friend. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘But I don't know the number.'

‘What?'

‘John's phone number,' he clarified. ‘I don't happen to know it, offhand. That's assuming he's got one here, of course. I don't actually remember seeing—'

She said something extremely vulgar about Honest John's telephone number, followed by something in even worse taste about Honest John himself. ‘I was worried sick,' she said. ‘But, of course, that never even crossed your mind. Oh no. You were too busy having
adventures—
'

‘It won't happen again,' he said, sitting down on a workbench. ‘Promise. The police aren't after me any more, the other me's been shipped off to the Homeworld, and John's, um, gone. I don't know about his thirteen clones,' he added, ‘but I've sort of got the feeling they've gone too. I have an idea I'd know about it if they were still here – I think it'd be like having an itch in an amputated leg, only the other way round. The other you and my cousin Alex seem to have ridden off into their own private sunset, or at least I haven't seen or heard anything about them, so I'm assuming they've slung their hooks. That just leaves a couple of hundred frogs, you and me.' He took a deep breath. ‘I think it's over,' he said. ‘And we've won.'

‘Won what?'

David shrugged. ‘Probably a free radio alarm clock or a weekend for two in Market Harborough,' he said. ‘Nothing very exciting, at any rate. What I meant was, they've all gone away and we're still here. In my case,' he added, thinking aloud, ‘meekly inheriting the Earth.'

She walked a few steps away and sat down on the single, rather rickety chair. ‘Marvellous,' she said. ‘You've inherited the Earth. Well, I haven't a clue where you're going to keep it, and you can bloody well dust it yourself.' She made an impatient gesture that ended with a box of small taps spilling all over the floor. ‘What the hell do you want with the Earth, anyhow? I didn't think all this was about Earths and stuff, I thought it was about—' She stopped and scowled ferociously at him, presumably for causing her to come perilously close to saying something embarrassing.

He looked at her for a moment, ignoring the scowl. ‘That's not the point,' he said. ‘The point is, they've
gone
. We're free. From now on, every time we decide to do something, it's really us deciding. Isn't that amazing?'

‘No.' She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Everybody else in the whole world does that. And I don't know if you've noticed, but most of them seem to be pretty miserable most of the time.' She looked away. ‘We're missing something,' she said.

‘Really? What?'

‘I don't know, do I? You're the one who's just inherited the Earth, you bloody well figure it out.'

‘You don't seem—' He stopped without finishing the sentence.

‘Don't seem what?'

‘You don't seem particularly happy,' he said.

‘Of course I'm
happy
,' she spat. ‘I'm absolutely bloody delirious with joy. But something isn't right, and it's got to be dealt with.'

He'd seen that look before, several times; usually in the eyes of his mother when, halfway from London to Scarborough, she'd insisted on going back to make sure the gas was turned off. When that look was on the loose, he knew perfectly well, negotiation was utterly pointless. ‘All right, then,' he said. ‘We'll just have to put everything – the happy ending and the triumph of true love over adversity, all of that – on hold until you've figured out what it is that's bugging you. Is it likely to take long, do you think?'

‘How should I know, when I don't even know what it is?'

He shrugged meekly. ‘While we're waiting,' he said, ‘would you like a cup of coffee?'

‘Black, no sugar,' she replied, looking away. ‘And unless I get something to eat very, very soon there's going to be real trouble.'

Just as well she didn't take sugar, since there wasn't any. As far as food was concerned— ‘All right,' he said, ‘let's go and get some food immediately. Any idea what you'd like?'

‘Frogs' legs.'

‘Apart from frogs' legs.'

‘Anything,' she growled, ‘I really don't care. Just so long as—'

Abruptly she fell silent, and David realised that she was staring past him at the doorway. He looked round, and saw a frog. Then loads of frogs, following the first one at a cautious distance. A whole green Sargasso Sea of small, round-eyed frogs was watching them both through the partly open door.

‘About what I said I wanted for lunch,' Philippa whispered. ‘I didn't mean it, really.'

David ignored her. Instead, he concentrated very hard on a little ridge right between the first frog's eyes, then suddenly (typical Homeworld behaviour, of course) slipped past Philippa's defences and into her mind while the ushers' attention was elsewhere. Once inside he planted the thought he'd come to deliver, and sneaked out again as quickly as he could. The thought was a small, simple one, a mental image of a plate, empty apart from the last smear of gravy and a few minor crumbs, and above it the inscription
Not Hungry Any More
.

He didn't feel very good about doing it, but it was for her own good; better falsely to believe you've been fed than correctly to know you're starving. Or something like that.

(There you go again, he told himself, interfering. Making decisions for people. Playing God.)

‘That frog's looking at me,' she said.

‘It's all right—'

‘No, it bloody well isn't. That frog is
staring
—'

David frowned. ‘Actually,' he said, ‘I wasn't talking to you. It's all right,' he repeated, pointedly to the frog, ‘she does know all about it, really. She just forgets sometimes, that's all.'

The frog hopped forward one step. ‘That's rude,' it said.

‘Well . . .'

‘Staring,' the frog maintained. ‘It's rude. And talking about a person as though they aren't there. That's very rude.'

David shrugged appeasingly. ‘I know,' he said. ‘But you've got to make allowances. I mean to say, she's only human.'

‘Then what's she doing talking? They aren't supposed to talk.'

David managed to get up off the workbench and stand blocking Philippa's line of fire before she'd even had time to pick up the heavy spanner that lay conveniently next to her left foot. ‘Get out of the way, please,' she said, ‘I want to smear that frog over at least three walls.'

‘That's
really
rude,' the frog pointed out. ‘She really shouldn't ought to be allowed to say that.'

‘Hold on.' There was an edge to David's voice that surprised him even more than it surprised Philippa. The frog didn't seem surprised at all, but that's frogs for you: the innate sang-froid of the born diplomat, and they can jump up to fifteen times their own length. ‘Hold on,' David repeated, ‘and shut up, both of you. Now then,' he continued, after a very brief pause for thought, ‘I'm guessing you're local, right?'

‘What's “local” mean?' the frog replied.

‘From around here.'

‘Then you're wrong, Mister Clever,' the frog replied cheerfully, ‘because I'm not from here at all. I'm from ever so far away. In fact, I'm from a different
planet
.'

‘Are you really?' David said sarcastically. Then the penny dropped, from such a height and with such a terminal velocity on impact that it punched a hole clean through his preconceptions. ‘Are you really? From a planet where everybody's like you?'

‘Yes,' the frog replied. ‘Where everybody's smart and good-looking like me and there aren't any stinky humans, except in the woods and the jungle where they belong. It's much nicer there.'

‘I believe you,' David lied. ‘So,' he went on, ‘how old are you?'

‘Me? I'm eight.'

‘Eight where you come from?'

‘That's what I just said, silly.'

David nodded, ignoring Philippa's what-the-hell-isall-this-about hand-signals. ‘Eight where you come from,' he said. ‘And you've been here a while? Or have you only just got here?'

‘Been here a few days,' the frog replied. ‘That's here days, I mean; they're not like the days back home. The days back home are much better.'

‘Of course. Longer, are they?'

‘Oh, yes.
Loads
longer.' The frog blinked twice. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions?'

‘You'll see,' David said softly. ‘Now then, are you on your own, or did you come with a lot of other fr— other people from home?'

‘I came with everybody else. Lots and lots of us. All my brothers and sisters, for a start.'

‘Thought so. And have you ever seen me before?'

‘'Course I have, silly. Outside Dad's old place, the one you and he left in such a hurry.'

So that was it, then. He was right. ‘You're one of the frogs I, er, talked to. There were thousands of you, so many that you couldn't all fit in the workshop, so some of you were outside. Yes?'

‘Yes. Why are you asking me if you know the answer already?'

‘Just a moment, we're nearly there. So, um, why did you come here? To this planet, I mean?'

‘You do ask funny questions. Because Dad sent for us, that's why.'