Danny Yates Must Die

‘Six months?’ he said in disbelief.

‘Pretty cool, huh?’ Munch munch munch. ‘I never knew anyone who’d been in a coma before – least, not for six months.’ Swallow. ‘Course, my flatmate before you – Keith – he was dead. But who could tell? But you, Danny, you’ve gone for it big time. Me, I’m proud of you. I may not look it but I am.’

‘Six months?’

‘Everyone at Poly wants to meet you, especially Annette Helstrang from Occult Pathology. She wants to dissect you; after you die, of course. Remember Annette Helstrang?’

He didn’t; and didn’t want to.

‘You met her once. She frightened you. She dissected Keith, put him in this hu-u-u-u-u-u-u-u--u-uge pickling jar.’ Lucy did a full stretch One That Got Away gesture. ‘Then she put him on display in her living room. She did a great job. You should see him, Dan. He never looked better.’

‘And for six months you’ve sat here, waiting for me to recover? Lucy, I don’t know what to say.’ Visions of Blackfriars Bob frisked, waggy tailed, in his head. And it had taken something like this for Lucy’s true feelings to show through? Her lies and insults, the practical jokes that only she found funny, her over pushiness, her casual fraud and theft, they didn’t mean a thing, not really, not when it mattered. And maybe the two of them could have a future as flatmates, one that didn’t involve her always trying to trample all over him whenever she was in a bad mood.

He took her non-peanut-flicking hand, squeezing it tight. ‘Thanks, Luce. I won’t forget this.’

She snatched her hand away. ‘Yeah; like I’ve nothing better to do than sit around waiting for you. I told you when you first moved in with me; don’t expect me to run round after you just coz I’m a woman; no washing for you, no ironing, no cooking. Coma watching was out too. Don’t believe me? Check the contract.’

‘But, then …?’

‘I only just found out you were missing. The hospital got in touch. You’d been plain “Anonymous” till two hours ago. I suppose that’s nothing new for you. You started muttering my name and address. They figured you probably weren’t, “That cow Lucy Smith,” so they called me. Anyhow, I thought I’d better come round and see you.’ She flicked another nut.

He frowned at her. ‘You didn’t notice I was missing for six months?’

She shrugged. ‘Osmo said something about it a few times but, I dunno, I suppose I wasn’t listening. Maybe there was something more interesting on TV; Home and Away or something.’

Danny was beginning to recall something. ‘There was a girl at the shop …’

‘With spotty hair?’

‘Tangerine,’ he corrected.

‘Huh?’

‘Tangerine; tangerine dreadlocks, big thick ones with lemon polka dots.’

‘Whatever.’ Flick. Click. ‘She’s dead.’

‘What!?!’

‘You killed her, Danny. The building fell right on her, squashed her like a polka dot lemon. It was only coz she’d thrown herself over you that you survived.’

Danny stared, numb, at the ceiling. In his mind’s eye it gave way; just a crack at first, a tiny thing spreading, like black lightning, from one wall to the other. Then it was a torrent of falling masonry, chunk by heartless chunk beating the life from the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen – as though hurled by a mad god lacking the sense to know who should live and who should die.

This couldn’t be right. He thought she’d have time to get out before the 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?’