Light Errant (6 page)

“How's about if I take it round the back, stick it in the yard? No one'll see, with the gate closed.”

“Even better. Don't rev her too loud when you start her up, she doesn't need it and you don't want to wake the street.”
Don't want to wake the street to the sound of a bike the neighbours know, if there are any of the old neighbours left and I bet there are...

“Can't drive,” he said cheerfully, quite unfazed. “I'll push. Back in three minutes, you just sit there.”

I wasn't planning on doing much else. From the angle I was sitting, though, I could see a couple of prescription-looking plastic tubs in the cabinet; so I did stand cautiously up and edge a couple of steps across, grabbing at cistern and wall en route to keep from keeling over—having finally quit moving, it was hellish hard to get going again, and the floor was bucking beneath me—and modified joy, one of them said 'Ibuprofen' on the label and wasn't empty. Might not be Ibuprofen inside, of course, but the odds were in my favour; and while it's not my favourite treatment for a headache or other hurts (I'm a bedtime Co-Co man myself), I knew it to be punchy stuff, and oh, my head and other parts did hurt.

So I took three for now with a glass of water, and kept a couple for later in case I couldn't hang on to sleep. Perched myself on the edge of the bath to wait for Jonathan, the toilet seemed too far away; showed him what I'd found when he came back—“Look,” I said, “treasure...”—and I carried more water through to the bedroom while he all but carried me.

Same old room, unredecorated except for a change of posters. Same old bed also, and it felt pretty close to coming home as I collapsed onto it. Jon helped me undress, rolled me under the covers and tucked me in like a boy much practised at nursing sick young men, which I dared swear that he was. And he kissed me goodnight chastely on the cheek, took a baggy T-shirt and shorts to sleep in, not to shock his flatmate too much when she woke, and turned the light off and left me; and I sighed, groaned a little as I tried to settle sore bones in sore flesh, and span into the darkness like I was drunk or stoned or both.

Woke by degrees, feeling my way reluctantly back into a world that had left me battered and bewildered, headsore and heartsore and humiliated. No, worse than humiliated: being his victim of anyone's, being so thoroughly done over by my own father made me feel craven, self-pitying, pathetic. Logically I knew there had been absolutely no defence, nothing at all that I could have done; even so, my mind-set had slipped back years overnight. I felt like cattle again, like one of the contemptible herd, despite sunlight and memories and all available evidence...

God. One night back and already I was thinking Macallan-style once more, dividing all of humanity into us and them and only we counted. No great surprise, though, and no real blame either: this town really was a Manichaean universe in miniature, where there was only light and darkness, good and evil, no shading in between. White hats and black hats, and my family wore the black. Except for me. Never any use on either side but hating the night and its uses—and to be honest my inability to use it, my freakishness—I'd chosen to live among the much-abused townsfolk though I could never truly be one of them either, my blood and my smiling, contemptuous relatives had lent me too much immunity. And then when I did at last discover my own talent, it wasn't the needs of the ordinary people that drove me to use it. Blood called to blood, and cousins of mine were being killed; it was to defend my abominable family that I finally turned assassin in my turn.

If there was any grey at all in this black-and-white city, I thought it was myself. Ambiguous and uncertain, not knowing where I belonged and finally needing to find out, I thought I was a loose cannon with its fuse already lit, charged and unpredictable and deadly.

Had thought so, at least. That had been one of the pictures in my head on yesterday's long road up, one of the arguments not to come. And I'd come regardless, dangerous though I was; and first thing that happened, first human contact, I got beaten up by my dad and I didn't know why.

This did not feel good. This felt worse than my body felt, and my body felt bad indeed.

I was lying on my belly, and my legs, I thought, felt worst. Impossibly heavy they felt, as well as aching throughout, all the way from hip to heel.

Impossibly heavy was right, actually; but it took me a while, took me an embarrassing time to figure out that some of the weight was extrinsic. Something was sitting on the back of my knees.

o0o

Also impossible, surely. What was I suggesting here, had Jon brought me a breakfast-tray and confused me with the bedside table, left it carefully balanced just where I couldn't get at it? Let's not be foolish, folks.

But yet, there wasn't any real doubt about it: something heavy was lying on top of the duvet on top of me, pressing me deeper into the mattress.
Check it out, Macallan
. I lifted my head from the pillow to see what gave, apart from my knees and the bedsprings.

Tried to, at least. I lifted my head and the pillow came also, rising two or three inches before it peeled away stingingly from my cheek, like sticking-plaster ripped off too soon. When I gazed, gaped down I saw dried blood on the pillowcase, a glue that had failed but a stain that would stay, bugger it.

I worked one hand out from under the duvet to touch my cheek with tentative fingers. No new bleeding, that I could feel; but I should've thought last night, I should've made Jon search harder. There's rarely very much in a young man's medical arsenal, but he can usually run to Elastoplast.

Elastoplast and pills for a headache, that last guaranteed. And I had pills and a glass of water ready by the bed, and I had the mother—no, the father of all headaches pounding away inside my skull, and all I had to do was reach.

Turn over, and reach. And I couldn't turn over, not till I knew what was making my legs so heavy. So okay, try the head thing again, now the pillow's made its bid for freedom. Lift head and never mind the throbbing, twist neck and never mind those sharp stabbing pains, this too shall pass; raise eyes and squinny into the light, where it's falling blindingly in between the curtains...

Where it was falling in a line that bisected the bed, that bisected also a large black amorphous mass before it dazzled me. Some kind of pelt, I thought. Discarded bearskin, one previous owner, not wanted on voyage? I shifted my legs beneath it, pulled myself up onto one elbow; it opened two yellow-green eyes and gazed at me. Thoughtfully, I thought, though God alone knew what it was thinking.

“Sorry, kitten,” I said, croaking slightly. “You've got to move, I'm losing circulation here.”

Move it did, as I rolled over. Very measured, its movements, quite unhurried. It stood up neatly on the duvet, absolutely not a kitten, one big cat; waited patiently while I settled on my back, heaping pillows awkwardly behind my head and grunting as I rediscovered all the separate pains in my body; then it paced slowly up the bed, stared into my eyes from an inch's distance, and stepped onto my chest. Sat there for a moment, rumbling a greeting, then curled up tidily, rested its massive head on its paws and lay there with its eyes narrowed now to contemplative slits, seemingly considering my place in the natural order of things.

Okay, I could handle this. Not any too impressed by myself, I didn't mind being judged by a cat. Nor did I mind lying still and serving as furniture, though it did feel somewhat like having a medicine ball balanced on my ribs, which was not maybe the best thing for me at that time. Lying still was still better than moving, though; breathing I could manage, apparently, even against the cat's weight. And the bed was warm and I was still dozy, my head was suffering badly but that I could live with, treat it like a hangover and ride it out. I needed a piss but not badly, not enough to dispute the cat's comfort or my own more questionable compromise. I gave it a grin, though grinning hurt where it pulled on torn skin, and let my head topple back into the pillows and my eyes close, cherishing the feel of that bar of sunlight laid like a brand across my face from stubbled chin to bruised scalp. Sleep again I wouldn't, dozy or not, but flopping was very much on the agenda.

o0o

So we lay there in comparative content; the cat at least seemed contented, to judge by his constant purring—more vibration than sound, I felt it in my bones; but it soothed and not irritated, and maybe I didn't have any broken edges in there after all—and that contented me. Eventually there were noises in the flat around us, footsteps to and fro and soft voices, doors opening and closing, hot water banging in the pipes and the flush of the toilet, once and then again a few minutes after. The cat twitched its ears a time or two, I would undoubtedly have twitched mine more if I'd had the twitching ability, but neither one of us moved more than that.

o0o

The bedroom door moved at last, and we both moved our eyes to meet it.

Jonathan came in, with a mug of something steaming in his hand. We both sniffed; didn't smell like coffee.

“Oh, Fizzy. Are you being a nuisance?”

“Not at all,” I said, quick in defence of my new friend.

“He's a ton weight, and you're sick. How are you feeling this morning?”

“Not sick,” I said, not true. I was sick at heart, and that is all-pervasive. “Just sore.”

“I brought you some tea,” he said, laying it on the bedside table, graphic evidence of how little he knew me. “No hurry, you don't have to get up; this isn't a hint or anything. You take your time. We're not going anywhere.”

The cat was, though, seemingly; Jonathan hoicked it up two-handed, ducked his head between its legs, spread it across his shoulders. The unquesting beast made no demur, it just lay passive and comfortable and by the smug look on its face didn't even falter in that subsonic purring.

With its weight lifted off me, I felt I was floating suddenly, inches above the bed. Nor did my head seem so bad, now that I could reach the pills. I took them anyway, though, on general principles; left the mug of tea severely alone, washing them down with last night's stale water, and said, “Jon?”

“Yes?”

“Why's the cat called Fizzy?”

“It's short for Malfeasance,” he said. “Go back to sleep. I was just testing the water, and you're not half cooked yet.”

o0o

If there's one thing guaranteed to keep me awake, it's a mixed metaphor. Five minutes later I was headed for the bathroom with my toothbrush in my hand and jeans pulled on for decency, refusing to be more body-conscious than that in what used to be my own flat and was now my friend's; and of course I met the flatmate in the hall. That was written, that was inevitable. If I hadn't bothered with the jeans, she'd have had her mother with her.

“Er, hullo...”

“Hi,” she said. And she was checking me over with her eyes and quite unashamed about it—well, of course she was, what else was she going to do with a half-naked stranger in what was her flat now and no longer mine, and the state I was in only adding piquancy?—so I did the same, while the conversation lulled between us.

She was tall, lean and not overdressed herself, in a loose faded-purple singlet over old frayed leggings and feet as bare as mine. Her hair was dark and raggedy, hanging in strands over her shoulders, and she had a tattoo on one shoulder and a smoking rollie between her fingers.

“Janice,” she said, holding out her other hand. I smiled, we shook politely, I told her what she surely already knew, that I was Benedict, Ben.

“Nice set of bruises, Ben,” she said, still looking. There was a light Scottish burr in her voice: east coast, I thought, but not Edinburgh. Borders maybe, maybe Fife.

“Yeah. I, um, I come from a very dysfunctional family.”

“Mmm. Jon told me.”

Clever old Jon. I hadn't told him where the damage had originated. Probably wasn't so hard to figure out, though, not in this town. Not after dark.

“Well, I'll just...” I waved the toothbrush vaguely, in lieu of words. Now I was on my feet and moving, that piss was more of a priority.

“Sure. Anything you need?”

“Squeeze of toothpaste, if that's okay. A rub of soap.”

“I meant witch-hazel, arnica. TCP. Bandages, doctor, that sort of thing?”

“No, really. I'm fine.” And I was, really, almost miraculously: a night's sleep and the first shock worn off, I was stiff and sore but no worse than that. Even the ribs were doing their thing with no more than a muted protest. Not cracked after all, I thought, only bruised bone-deep.

“Okay. Do you do breakfast?”

Sometimes, often, but not today. “I do coffee,” I said hopefully, fearful that maybe in this house they might only do tea.

“Nescaff?”

“Whatever.” I'd been spoiled for two years, travelling in foreign lands where instant coffee was a foreign concept; have to get over that. Or go away again.

“No worries, then. It'll be waiting.”

o0o

And it was waiting, as was she; nor was she alone.

Here is Janice, here is Jon. Here is their cat Fizzy. They are in the kitchen. Here comes their friend Ben. Ben is carrying the cup of tea that Jon made him, that he doesn't want to drink. Ben isn't expecting to find Jon in the kitchen. See Ben blush...

But at least I'd covered up under a baggy peasant shirt (Marina's favourite, that had been: it had ties instead of buttons,and she liked to play), I wasn't showing so many souvenirs any more. My face was badly marked, though, and I couldn't hide that. Stubble didn't do it.

I put the mug of cooling tea on the drainer, and accepted coffee from Janice. Gave Jon a rueful glance, but he just shrugged, smiled, not bothered.

“Sit down,” he said, “you look wobbly.”

“Yeah.” It was true, I did still feel shaky on my legs. There had only ever been room for one chair, in this small kitchen; they'd left it for me, bless them, and I took it gratefully.