Think Yourself Lucky (9 page)

Sitdown waits for me to start, as if he has some kind of official standing though he has no standing I can see, and then he speeds away with a mechanical whine that sums him up. As soon as Twitch stumps back into the arcade I return to offering my services with a smile, smiling because nobody knows how they'd earn them. I've handed out just a few flyers when a man reaches for one if not the entire handful. No, he's trying to gesture them back where they came from. "Pardon me," he says, though not as if he wants it. "Weren't you told you couldn't do that?"

He's holding up his Bible like a certificate of authority or else a weapon he wants me to fear. His face isn't much less grey than his hair, and the mass of wrinkles makes it look as if he keeps it in a string bag, which has tugged his thin pale lips so straight that they're incapable of taking any other shape. "I can't pardon you," I tell him. "I'm not what you'd call an angel."

"I asked for no pardon. I—"

"That's a bit of a fib, isn't it? I heard you ask and I don't forget, ever. Maybe it isn't a mortal sin, but you'd better remember you're mortal."

"I know all about sin, and I—"

"You've tried the lot, have you? Sure you've missed none? If you can really tick them all you ought to get yourself into the record books."

He isn't used to being interrupted. When he was haranguing everybody in the street he didn't relent for a second, however many wags and unbelievers tried to heckle him. Now his face seems to grow greyer still each time I cut off his babbling breath. "I'm talking about you," he insists. "You and your indifference to authority. You were told—"

"No need to remind me. I heard Mr Twitch. Go on, take a breath before you choke. I don't need any myself."

His face wriggles with disgust before resuming its default expression. "Every one of our breaths comes from God."

"In my case you'd be surprised. Anyway, let's finish with breathing. I've helped a few people do that in my time." Before he can react to this I say "Father Greygrump, should I call you? Am I getting a personal sermon, Padre Grizzlepiss?"

"God's word is for everyone." No doubt he thinks insults are part of the job or even one of the ways God tests him. "He gives us life," he says with a wheeze to render the pronoun respectful, "and instructs us how to live to please Him."

"I've got someone else to please," I say and flap a handbill at him. "The only one."

"That's you, is it? What you call luck can only come from God."

"He's cornered all the markets, has he? You'll be telling me next he sees everything we do."

"That is the simple truth, my son."

"I'm nobody's son." As I see Pastor Fogface think he's found a way to reach me with his preaching I say "He's better than a security camera, is he? Better than computers. What else do you fancy he can do?"

"He is the source of all creation. Accept that in your soul and—"

"He's not the source of me, and he didn't give that liability on the scooter much luck. Aren't you lot meant to help people? Maybe you should have told him to rise from his chair and walk."

"It is not given to us to perform miracles or interfere with God's work."

"You won't be any good at bringing back the dead, then. Getting rid of demons, is that you?" I see he's wearying of the argument—maybe he's imagining that it's the usual kind of confrontation he has to deal with—but I won't have him walking away when he's taken up so much of my time. "Let's go somewhere there aren't so many people," I say, "and we'll have the style of discussion I like."

"God will still be with us," he says and is matching my steps when I hear a familiar sound—a mechanical whinge. It's the sound of an electric motor. Mr Sitdown is back.

If I've any fault it's that I'm too readily distracted, too eager to light on the most deserving candidate for my attentions. Saint Godlybore or Mr Sitdown? Whichever I don't choose I'll be able to track down later, if someone else hasn't caught my fancy by then. Sitdown scowls at me and scoots off through the crowd as if he can leave me behind, which is all the provocation I need. "On second thoughts I've had my dose of you, Godgob," I tell the evangelist. "Go and tell tales to your fidgety friend."

I have to hand out several bills before he takes enough offence to stalk into the arcade in search of Twitch. Meanwhile Sitdown has sped to the next side street and disappeared around the corner, but I'm there in time to watch him turn left into a narrower alley at the end. Beyond the alley is a street with traffic, and he whines across the pedestrian crossing as fast as any of the cars he stopped were travelling. On the far side of the road he has to drive uphill, which doesn't slow him down, since the street is deserted. At least, he thinks it is. Even if he had mirrors on his scooter I don't know whether he would notice me behind him.

I wonder where he thinks he's bound, but there's no point in waiting to find out. As a bend in the street cuts off the sound of traffic I move within arm's length of his ridged blubbery neck. I watch it quiver as he speeds past the back doors of restaurants and shops and the fronts of clubs that won't be open until after dark. I'm amused to think he may be driving fast and shivering because he's nervous, but it's time to give him more of a reason. "You can stop now," I try not breathe in his ear. "Race over. You're at the finish."

The scooter lurches as soon as I lean across his shoulder. One wheel stumbles off the pavement and lodges between the slimy bars of a kerbside drain. Sitdown's forehead glistens like the drain as he struggles around on the seat, which involves such an effort that I wonder if his panic has puffed him up, clamping him between the arms. "God almighty, it's you again," he gasps. "What are you up to? Soft in the head or what?"

"You recognised me, then. Just the almighty will do."

"What do you want?" His eyes are jittering in their sockets, but there's nobody else for them to see. "Look what you've made me do," he whines.

"Aren't you capable of doing anything by yourself? Not much use at all, then. Not even worth your weight in everybody else's tax."

I'm enjoying the sight of his contorted swollen neck, but now I move in front of him to let him look all the way into my eyes. He's barely glanced into them when he does his best to avoid them while he tries to shift the scooter. The wheels judder and the motor screeches, but that's the end of the response. "Careful," I advise him. "You don't want to be even more of a wreck, do you? Think of all the people you've still got to try to run down."

His blotchy brows squeeze out a few more drops, but I don't think that's panic—more likely the effort of making himself say "I didn't hurt you, did I? I'm sorry if I did."

"Just me."

"You or anyone," he says, but he's had enough of pretending to be penitent; Father Godsdrone wouldn't think much of him. "We've got rights too, you know."

"Which rights are those, now?"

"The right to use the street just like anybody else for a start."

"But that isn't how you use it, is it? More like a racetrack. As I said, you've crossed the line."

"I'll tell you what right we've got. The right to be alive."

"Just like me, were you about to say? You'd be in for a shock."

He doesn't quite meet my eyes. Maybe he's trying not to grasp my words as well. "Will you stand out of my way, please," he says as if he fancies he can leave me no choice. "I want to get going."

"Don't worry, soon you'll be gone. There, I've stood. I'll bet you're wishing you were able to."

I've moved back a step, and he struggles to send the scooter forward. The motor screams in protest, and shredded scraps of sodden newspaper fly away from the drain as the grid rattles in its socket, but the scooter doesn't budge. His brows bulge and stream with sweat as he throws all his weight against the right arm of the chair, away from the trapped wheel, and the motor shrieks on his behalf. At last its frustration whimpers into silence while his eyes and his forehead compete at glistening. "What a pain," I say as if I've found some sympathy within me. "Can't trust gadgets. Always best to rely on yourself."

He's glancing about desperately, but there's no help in sight. "It's a pity your friend Twitch isn't here to take charge," I say. "He'd bring some big men to sort you out. That's what walkie-talkies are for. Not many walkies for you, are there? Too many talkies, though."

I've amused myself enough. I'm furious to think I may sound childish, not that his opinion of me or anybody else's matters. "Would you like me to help you on your way?"

"You better had. You got me into this position."

Maybe he's so determined not to feel dependent that he greets any offers of help this way. "Stay there," I say and take my grin behind him. "Wait till I get a grip."

I enjoy a few moments of staring at the thick mottled stump of his neck. I can imagine how fingers would sink into it, like squeezing rotten rubber. His large suffused ears look firmer, and I seize them with both hands and drag them away from his head. "Come on, make an effort," I yell in the right one. "Don't leave it all to me."

The shock convulses his body and rocks the scooter so hard that the wheel springs out of the grid. As he clutches the arms of the chair he starts the motor, intentionally or otherwise, and the scooter surges forward. "Give me a ride," I shout and perch behind him on a ledge above the axle. "That's the least you can do when I'm getting you on the road."

I don't know how much he hears, because I've dug a fingernail into the hole in each ear. The depths feel clogged, as if his body has exuded samples of its blubber. The poking of my nails seems to madden him, driving him to put on speed in the wild hope of somehow leaving me behind. "Look what he's doing to me," he wails at the top of his voice. "Look, somebody. Stop him."

I could think of putting together a collection of exit lines, except are any of them worth preserving? I don't know whether I'm delighted or disgusted to find how easily manipulated Sitdown is. By thrusting my fingernail into his left ear I make him steer right in a frenzied bid to dodge the sensation. This sends him along a deserted alley towards a street with a promising amount of traffic. "I told you I'd get you on the road," I say. "They look like your speed."

I don't suppose he hears me. I'm digging my nails so deep that I imagine I'm scraping his eardrums. "Look," he shrieks higher than the motor did, and I feel as if I've poked his brain clear of almost all the words he ever knew. "Somebody look."

Nobody does until the driver of a speeding van notices him, by which point it's too late. I've given the depths of the holes a vigorous parting poke that sends Sitdown helplessly into the traffic. I hopped off the chair as it left the alley, where I linger to watch the van mow Sitdown down. A large metallic thump is combined with a softer thud, after which the van drags its prize quite a few abrasive yards before the brakes bring it to a hysterically high-pitched halt. I'm diverted to see how many ways metal and cloth and meat can be torn apart and rearranged together. As spectators start to get in the way I leave them to their observations. My interest has already dwindled—it always does—but I have Sitdown's final word to take with me: his last outraged howl of "Look."

"Go on." The thin stooped man wasn't so much holding the door open for his wife as jerking it to urge her past it. "Go in," he said as well.

Both of them were greying—well on their way to elderly if not beyond. She was taller than her husband or perhaps not just so bent. The skin that dangled from her throat seemed to pull her face down, even the edges under her eyes, except for her vague but determined smile. Her husband watched with resignation no less pained than affectionate as she collected a copy of each holiday brochure from the racks and brought them to the counter. "What can I do for you today?" David said.

"Come and sit down with me, Pat." Her husband had been loitering near the door, but now he trudged to join her. "We'd like to go somewhere," she said.

"Anywhere special?" her husband might have been asking on David's behalf.

"They've all been that mostly, haven't they? Now you mention it I wouldn't mind going back to one."

"Are you planning on letting us know which?"

"Don't be like that. He knows what I mean," she assured David and possibly herself as well. "What about the one we really liked, Pat? Where they put, you know, on the bed."

"Sheets."

"Not them, don't be silly. Well, them as well. But you know, the place where they sort of, when they changed the bed they made it like you said, special."

"How'd they do that?"

"Flowers." With a surge of triumph that made her clutch at his arm on the counter she said "They put flowers on the bed."

"There's a few places did."

"Yes, but this was our favourite, wasn't it?" When he didn't own up to agreeing she said "Where they had, you remember, that thing on the water we liked."

"A boat."

"Not a boat. You're just being a pig now, Pat. A you know, sort of flashing. We saw it when we came back at night."

"A buoy."

"Not a boy and not a girl either. Are you trying to show me up? This young man won't think much of you for it."

"He just wants to do his job if you'll let him, Daff."

"I don't see how I'm stopping him. I'm not stopping you, am I?" Having given his badge a rheumy squint, she seemed to feel victorious for adding "David."

"I'm here for you. For anyone who needs advice." As Pat sent him a look that could have been some form of plea David said "Were you thinking of a lighthouse?"

"That's exactly what. See, he knew it all the time."

David couldn't tell whether this meant him besides her husband, who said "We've seen a few of them."

"Well, this was our best place."

"There's been a few of them as well."

"It was sort of, you know, an island."

David was ashamed to think the words her husband said. "Only sort of?"

"I'm telling you it was an island. And I'll tell you what else it was, don't tell me." As it became plain that her husband was unlikely to, she said "It was, you know, you do know. That place in Greece."