"Me? Good. But I'll never play the piano again—" I broke off and groaned. I'd realized the consequences of my accident. "The recording session on Wednesday—there's no way I'll be able to play."
"Oh, Mike, I'd forgotten." Midge bit into her lower lip and knelt beside me, her arm hugging my waist to comfort. I was too angry at myself to be comforted, though.
"I'm not sure I understand," said Mycroft. "Is there some kind of professional engagement you think you'll have to miss?"
"I'm a musician," I explained. "There was an important session set for later this week, but it looks as if I'm out of it." I stared at my bandaged hand and felt like banging it against the table. I didn't, of course.
Mycroft sat facing me again and put his hand on my shoulder. "Go home and stay there for the next day or so. Don't go out anywhere, just stay inside." He leaned forward confidentially and said, "Your hand will be completely healed by Wednesday."
Grateful though I was, I had to restrain myself from shouting at him. "Right," I said evenly. "I'll go home. I'll stay indoors. Thanks a lot." I stood. "We'd better be on our way, Midge." My eyes told her: No more talk, no more thank-yous; let's just get out of here.
She understood perfectly.
But it was Mycroft who left the room before us. "I'll say good-bye to you now," he said, his voice revealing no resentment of my sudden brusque manner. "Please don't forget my invitation."
"I won't," replied Midge—he'd been speaking to her, not me. She held out a hand as if to shake his, but he appeared not to notice; he turned briskly and walked from the room. I say "appeared" not to, because I'm sure his eyes flickered downward at Midge's hand for a second and he involuntarily drew backward, the slight movement transformed into a complete turn as if his mind were already on other matters. I could have been wrong, but in the light of later events I think not.
"You've still gotta problem, Mike." Kinsella was grinning at me, fingers slid into the pockets of his tight Wranglers.
We looked quizzically at him.
"A dried-out radiator," he reminded us.
I nearly hit my forehead with my bad hand.
He chuckled. "S'okay, I'll organize a can of water and drive you back to your wheels. Let's hope the engine's not messed up."
"Yeah, let's hope."
We left the house and I was glad to be outside, happy to feel the sun on my face again. Weird, but the only soreness I now felt was, in fact, on my face and neck where droplets of scalding water had managed to hit me. Even so, that pain was mild compared to what I'd experienced earlier. Parts of my chest may have felt a bit tender, but the coarse material of my shirt had prevented any real damage. My bandaged lower arm and hand was still tingling, but the feeling wasn't unpleasant.
"Incredible stuff," I remarked to Kinsella as the three of us walked toward the red Escort.
"Huh?" he said, squinting against the sun.
"That green liquid you used on my arm."
"Oh, that was nothing special. A cleanser, that's all, laced with antiseptic."
"But it stopped the pain."
"Mycroft stopped the pain, my friend."
"That isn't possible."
"Yup, we both know it."
"Then why—?"
He flashed those sickeningly perfect teeth. "Mycroft's a wonderful man."
He seemed to think that was explanation enough.
We reached the car and Kinsella opened the rear door for us. Midge climbed in first and I followed, careful not to bump my hand against anything. He took the driver's seat and we waited for someone to arrive with the can of water.
Midge leaned forward in her seat. "Are you feeling better yourself, Hub?" she asked.
He turned to her in surprise. "How d'you mean?"
"You left rather hurriedly the other evening. We thought you'd been taken ill." .
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and pointed toward one corner of the house. "Here comes Neil with that water." He cleared his throat, then said, "I guess I did feel unwell that time. Sorry, it was kinda rude of me to rush away like that. Something I had for lunch didn't agree with me, y'know?"
The passenger door opened and Neil Joby got in, placing the plastic watercan down by his feet.
"Okay, wagons roll," said Kinsella, switching on the engine. "You folk'll be home in no time."
We drove around the house and both Midge and I turned as we gathered speed on the long driveway. The gray house—the Synergist Temple—was much larger than we had imagined when we had first caught sight of it from the forest edge.
To me, at least, it now seemed far more ominous. Yet Midge was looking back with a trace of a smile tilting her lips.
HEALED
MY SECOND thought when I woke next day was of my hand: would it be a huge swollen mess pushing out at the bandages?
The previous night we'd decided we would go over to the hospital in Bunbury first thing in the morning and get the burns treated by experts, despite Mycroft's crazy assurance that it wouldn't be necessary. I'd fully expected to spend the night in constant pain but, in fact, I'd slept like a baby, dreaming of Gramarye itself and all kinds of pleasant things—growing flowers, animal friends, sunshine and brilliant skies. I hadn't felt even a twinge.
My inclination had been to ring Bob the moment we got back to the cottage and break the bad news, but Midge had talked me out of it. Wait and see, she'd said. Wait and see.
Midge had gentled me through the rest of the evening, had even kissed each exposed and sore-looking finger to make them better; I'd reveled in the attention, although dreading the time when the powerful painkiller that had obviously been mixed into that green stuff (I didn't give any credence to Kinsella's assertion that it was only an antiseptic) would begin to wear off. Mercifully, it hadn't.
Midge was still asleep next to me, looking ten years old, which made my first thoughts well-nigh criminal; I soon remembered my prime concern. My left arm was tucked beneath the sheet and I was almost afraid to peep. There was a slight discomfort down there—the bandages felt tight— but no throbbing pain. Maybe sleep was still drugging my brain; I clenched my teeth, waiting for the hurt to hit. It didn't, and I summoned up the courage to look.
Lifting the sheet, I slowly brought my injured hand up to my face. If anything, the bandages had loosened during the night, the discomfort due to the sticky tape holding them in place rather than pressure from swollen flesh. The exposed fingers were only a little reddish. I flexed them and they were hardly stiff. I waggled my wrist and my hand moved loosely, the bandages the only restraint. I waved my arm in the air and it was fantastic and it was mobile and it was painless and it was unbelievable!
"Midge!"
She woke with a start, jumping up and crouching in the bed, eyes wide with alarm.
"Midge! My arm! It doesn't hurt at all!"
She looked from my face to my arm and she squealed. Her hands came together and she only just stopped from clutching my raised hand.
"Mike, are you sure?"
"Am I sure? Jesus, Midge, I should know if it hurts or not. Look, I can even wave the fingers." I waved the fingers.
"I knew, Mike, I just knew! I was sure you'd be all right."
"So you believed in that Mycroft stuff?"
"No, I felt sure when we got back here. I can't explain . . ."
She didn't even try. She hugged me, and we both toppled back against the pillows.
"Hey, hey, take it easy!" I cried, holding the bandaged hand aloft. "Let's not ruin a good thing with too much excitement."
She smothered my face in kisses. "I knew, I knew," she told me again.
I pulled her away by dragging at the back of her nightshirt with my good hand.
"Why don't we check it out properly before we get carried away, huh? You know, what's happening here isn't really possible. You saw for yourself that jet of scalding water hit me."