"You're right," she said mock-severely. "This isn't happening, the Magic didn't work at all."
She was joking, she hadn't meant that last remark. At least, the conscious part of her hadn't.
I held up my arm between us. "Okay, Pixie, I want you to take off the bandages ever so slowly, and if it starts to hurt I'll let you know with a scream. Maybe then we'll come back to the real world."
She carefully peeled off the tape and began unwinding the dressing, the gauze beneath coming free as she progressed. It took less than fifteen seconds for my lower arm and hand to be completely exposed.
"Sheeeee . . ." It was no more than an escaping breath from me.
The flesh was tender-looking and blotchy-red, but there were no blisters, no stripped skin, no scald marks. It was the most beautiful arm in the world.
MOTION PICTURE
I DIDN'T GET back to Gramarye until late Thursday afternoon. The recording session had been fantastic—Collins had to be one of the most professional musician/singers in the business, and one of the easiest to get along with (so long as you were doing your job right) and he made Bob's and my song sound a hundred times better than it really was. I'd stayed on through the day (Wednesday), invited to work on another couple of tracks for the album, and had loved every relaxed, jokey moment. I hadn't realized how much I'd been missing the scene until then, and it was great to catch up on all the news with Bob and one or two of the other musos afterward in the nearest bar.
I began by going steady with the booze, but I was on a high and easily led. Relieved, too, that my hand hadn't let me down (I'd spent the previous two days with my guitars, working out the slight stiffness left in my fingers—which could have been due to the long lay-off anyway). The buzz I felt took over all sensibilities and I was soon knocking them back like a man out on parole.
Bob didn't believe in the seriousness of my accident at all, insisting that I must have moved back faster than I'd thought, getting scalded a bit but not badly, and making my usual namby-pamby fuss. Sure, my hand and arm were more pinkish than normal, and there were a few nasty splodges on my face, but the damage could only have been superficial. I told him about the Synergists and Mycroft's trick with the colored liquid. Fucking crazy, was Bob's comment.
He suggested I stay the night at his place and I had to admit the thought of driving all the way back to Hampshire, loaded as I was, didn't appeal. I found a phone and rang Midge.
She agreed it would be senseless to drive that far so late and told me to stay with Bob and enjoy myself. Watch yourself, though, she warned, and I knew exactly what she meant: Bob could be a great junkhead at times.
After getting excited over my day, Midge informed me she'd spent her time painting, enjoying the solitary confinement, but naturally missing me a lot. How much? How high the mountains, how deep the sea . . .?
I told her she'd pay for her mockery when I got home, and then we both got mawkishly serious, telling each other we really hated not being together, even for a day, that being apart didn't feel natural, that love was a hurting thing—you know the stuff. Cliché endearments, maybe, but we meant them. There were watery blobs in my eyes when I returned to Bob and the others.
Still, I managed to have a good time. We went for a meal from there and ended up back at Bob's place, a Victorian terraced house in Fulham, about one in the morning. By then, we were feeling no pain. His latest lady (Bob had been married twice and was now legally separated from the second wife) was in bed and she flatly refused (a bit disgruntledly, I felt) to join our party. We played hard rock on the stereo until thumps on the wall indicated that the neighbors weren't in a partying mood either. Our pals left shortly after, and Bob and I carried on with reminiscences of great old times together—gigs, scrapes, practical jokes and women just about covered the field—breaking open fresh cans of beer and suffering bouts of girlish giggling. It was a good night, a night for talking, and I was glad my friend needed no other stimulants than the beer we were drinking and our own conversation. I've no idea what time we both finally crashed out.
I awoke around noon, stretched out on a sofa, shoes removed and a dressing gown tossed over me. Bob had (surprisingly) been up before ten and had gone off to "put a deal together," as he would say; his girlfriend, Kiwi (I still don't know to this day what her real name was, or why she was called Kiwi), informed me of this as she handed me a huge Peter Rabbit mug of strong black coffee. I sat there like a zombie, drinking coffee and nursing my head, and after a while (when she started up the Hoover within three feet of me, in fact) I guessed it was time to leave.
Kiwi was pleased enough to switch off her turbopower machine for a moment when I told her I'd be on my way, and she smiled prettily. "Look forward to Saturday," she said. "Saturday?" I asked. "Bob told me before he left that you'd asked us down to dinner," she trilled. "Oh yeah," I said, remembering vaguely. "Yeah, see you then," I added. "Look forward to it," she repeated. The resumed Hoovering quickly sent me on my way.
I stopped on the way back to Hampshire for a light snack and a hair-of-the-dog, also taking the opportunity to ring Midge to inform her of the hero's return. There was no reply from Gramarye, so I assumed she'd gone for a walk although for once the weather wasn't terrific—not raining, but overcast. She couldn't have gone shopping, because I had the car.
I was soon on my way again and the throbbing in my head eventually started to ebb. By the time I reached the Hampshire border I was feeling pretty good again, although looking forward to an hour or so in my own bed to clear away the last dregs of the hangover.
And you know, the closer I drew to home the happier I became: I'd cut loose for a while and had a great time, enjoyed fast company and working again with professionals; but that one day and night had been enough—at least enough to last me quite some time. Great feeling, that. And new to me.
At last I reached Cantrip and drove through the high street, catching sight of the Reverend Sixsmythe on his bike ahead. Still angry at him for upsetting Midge (not to mention me) with his gruesome recount of Ma Chaldean's death, I was tempted to thump my horn as I drew level to make him wobble, but I resisted.
Out of the village, then into the lanes, the forest closing in on either side. Light raindrops speckled the Passat's windshield.
A few turns and God bless her, there she was, a splash of white in the distance. I was grinning all over my face when I pulled onto the grassy shoulder at the side of Gramarye's garden. Now I did toot the horn, just to let Midge know I was back. Opening the hatchback, I hauled out my two guitar cases and rested them on the ground while I closed up again. Guitars in either hand, I stepped over the fence rather than walk around to the gate, and trudged through the flowerbeds to the path, expecting to see Midge's happy pixie face peering from the doorway at any moment. I was disappointed, though. Midge either hadn't heard my arrival, or she hadn't yet returned from her walk. But surely she couldn't have been out all this time, particularly as the weather wasn't up to much? Perhaps she was asleep, or in the bath: either one would suit my purposes admirably.
I glanced at the upstairs windows, and they were dark and lifeless.
A small scratching noise, and my attention went back to the front door. There was Rumbo, gnawing at the paintwork. He turned and his expression seemed to say, "So where the hell have you been?"
I chuckled and he joined in. Bob had scoffed when I'd told him about the cottage in our boozy state—about the animals and birds who came every day, the wild growth of beautiful flowers, the atmosphere itself—demanding to know what kind of "weed" was I growing down here and could he order a caseload? I hadn't risen to the bait, because even I felt much of what I said was exaggeration now that I was back in this real world of cynics and grafters. But you had to be in Gramarye to know; logic took over once outside.