Little People (23 page)

‘Melissa,' I said.

‘Michael!'

Typical. The sort of poetic justice you'd expect to get if Judge Dredd wrote sonnets. I noted in passing that I appeared to have broken my leg; but that was just the free plastic toy at the bottom of the cornflake packet of my afflictions.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
closed my eyes. ‘Fuck,' I said.

‘Well,' Melissa replied, ‘all right. But first, shouldn't we—?'

I sighed. ‘No,' I said, ‘not like that, I meant - oh, forget it. And would you mind getting off me? My leg hurts.'

‘Oh.'

‘In fact,' I went on, ‘I think it's probably broken. Ouch,' I added, just to drive the point home.

‘Sorry,' Melissa said.

‘No use saying you're sorry, is it?' I snapped. ‘Get off me, for crying out loud.'

She seemed to shoot upwards, like a Harrier off the deck of a ship. ‘It's all right,' she said. ‘Your leg, I mean. It'll fix itself.'

‘Will it? Well, that's something, I suppose—' A nasty thought struck me. ‘How long will it take?'

‘Oh, no more than a month, if it's a clean break. And—'

‘And you'll fast-forward me through it, so I won't have to endure all that lying around in traction eating grapes? No, thank you very much. From now on, my time's my own. You got that?'

She frowned. ‘You want to spend a month in hospital? Actually live through it, I mean? But it's so
boring
—'

‘Yes!' I shouted. ‘And no, I don't enjoy being bored. In fact, I have an abnormally low boredom threshold, I can't even sit still during the weather forecast. But I will not have you pointy-eared freaks snipping out great big chunks of my life. It's not right, and I won't stand for it. Understood?'

She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. ‘I hate to have to say this, but you won't be in any fit state to stand for anything until your leg's healed. Are you sure you wouldn't rather edit it out? I mean, it's not as if there's anything useful you can do, lying on your back with one leg in the air.'

Unfortunately, she was right. I hate it when people are right at me like that; it's like having a cat that insists on fetching in dead mice and laying them at your feet, like loyal subjects bringing tribute to the Sultan. ‘Oh, all right then,' I said. ‘But this is the last time, understood? I've got to get back there as quickly as possible, before she changes her mind.'

‘She?'

(And I could remember the whole thing; days and weeks of staring at the ceiling, nothing to do but see how many times out of ten I could hit the lampshade with a precision-spat grape pip. If I'd had to go through all that – with the irascible, short-temper, pain-in-thebum personality I appeared to be stuck with on this side of the line – I'd have gone stir-crazy in a week. Somehow, though, acknowledging that Melissa had been absolutely right didn't make me feel any better-disposed to her at all.)

‘She,' I repeated. ‘Cruella. The girl I'm in love with. The wonderful girl who waited for me for ten years, even though everybody told her I was dead. The angel in human shape who now thinks I've pissed off over here for good, thanks to you and your ridiculous magic circles. Right,' I added, ‘I'm off. Let's hope this is the very last time I ever see you or this loathsome place.' I looked about me for something circular to tread in. Fortunately, there didn't seem to be any cows in Elfland.

‘Oh,' she said.

It was the way she said it, of course. Now if I'd been me, instead of the miserable-self-centred-jerk me, that particular expression would've made macramé out of my heartstrings. As it was, I just felt mildly uncomfortable without really knowing why.

‘Trust me,' I said, ‘you'll be better off. I mean, be honest. Just listen to me, would you? I'd be the sort of husband who'd come home drunk from the pub and yell the place down because his dinner wasn't on the table.'

‘It would be,' Melissa replied quickly. ‘I'd make sure of that. I'm a good cook,' she added. ‘Why don't you let me fry you up some bacon and eggs? You like bacon and eggs.'

Well, yes, I do; and let's not forget, it'd been well over a day, going on ten years, since I'd had anything to eat. ‘With fried bread?'

‘And black pudding and baked beans and hash browns and sausages and fried tomatoes—'

‘No, I can't stand fried tomatoes. And why aren't there any mushrooms?'

‘I was just coming to them,' she said. ‘Followed by toast and marmalade, with plenty of fresh coffee—'

‘Proper coffee,' I pointed out, ‘not that decaff rubbish.'

‘Of course. We don't have decaff here; after all, we don't sleep, so who needs it?'

Talk about your temptation beyond endurance. I have a notion that if Satan had crept up to Jesus fasting in the wilderness and offered him a full cooked breakfast and a big pot of steaming Blue Mountain, we'd all be going to the pictures on Black Sabbath Eve and sending each other Walpurgis Night cards. But man shall not live by bread alone, even fried bread. ‘No,' I said, ‘don't bother. I'll grab something to eat once I'm back where I belong.'

‘Oh.'

‘Will you stop saying that, for crying out loud?'

‘Sorry.'

She reminded me of someone, just as I reminded me of someone. Different someones, naturally. ‘All right, you're sorry, big deal. Now, get me something I can make a circle with. Well, don't just stand there like a prune.'

‘Right. Of course. Won't be a moment.'

She set off like a guilt-stricken hare, and that was what made me realise who she put me in mind of. Me, of course; human-side me, the poor fool who'd jump through six hoops backwards and land on my head in a neglected cesspool if Cru told me to. As to who I reminded me of – three guesses ought to be two too many.

Everything exactly the same, in fact, apart from the differences.

While I was still working this out for myself, she came scuttling back with a small barrel. ‘This ought to do,' she said.

I looked at it. ‘You couldn't find anything larger?'

‘Sorry.'

I scowled at her. ‘Oh's bad enough,' I said. ‘Sorry's worse. Don't do it, understand?'

‘Sor— I won't. Promise.'

Even then a little tiny part of me was saying,
Sweet Jesus, am I really that wet and pathetic?
And coming to the conclusion that if I was, maybe I'd be better off staying here after all. Going back to being
that
after tasting the exuberant freedom of this commanding, authoritative if rather annoying-to-other-people – but then, who gives a stuff about
other people
anyway? – personality: it wouldn't be fun. In fact, it'd be horrible. Furthermore, I'd still have all those dreadful problems to contend with - down and out, no job, Daddy George most likely out to get me and conceal my remains in the footings of a flyover, no money to buy cooked breakfasts with. And for what? Some bird who'd always treated me as commandingly and authoritatively as I was treating Melissa.
No way
, I thought.
Bugger that for a full-scale NATO training exercise.

‘On the other hand,' I said slowly, ‘where's the rush? I mean,' I went on, ‘if she waited for me ten years when she thought I was dead—'

Something clinked. It was Melissa sliding the coffee pot onto an already overcrowded trestle table. Of course, I should have shouted at her for doing another of those dumb time-slip things when I'd expressly ordered her not to; but the bacon was beautifully golden-crisp round the edges, and the fried eggs were exactly the way I liked them, and the sausages—

‘Chair,' I pointed out.

‘Ooops. I forgot.'

‘Stupid woman.'

‘Here you are,' she said, drawing the chair back so I could sit down. ‘I'll just go and get the salt and pepper.'

‘Of course, a bottle of brown sauce'd be too much to ask for,' I said with my mouth full.

‘And the brown sauce,' she said. ‘Shall I pour it for you?'

I shook my head. ‘Give it here,' I said. ‘I don't want you drowning everything in it.'

They were excellent sausages, I had to give her that, though the mushrooms were a tad underdone. Even so; maybe I
could
grow to like it here, if I tried really hard. The ability to compromise is the hallmark of a truly evolved personality, I always say.

‘Here,' I mumbled through a faceful of semi-chewed toast, ‘get rid of that damned barrel, will you? Somebody could trip over that and break a leg or something.'

‘Sorry. I mean, right away.'

Remarkable how a good meal changes one's perspective. I guess it all goes back to our primitive hunter-gatherer instincts. A hungry man is tense, on edge, nervous, prey to all manner of doubts and worries. A man with a few thousand calories straining his shirt buttons is, by contrast, relaxed, at peace, able to sit back and take a calm, rational view of the situation at hand. Not so bad here after all, I reflected; at least, the grub's all right and it's free, you aren't forever getting arrested by over-zealous fuzz when you choose to take an al fresco nap, the locals seem polite enough, and the scenery's not bad at all. True, you've lost the only girl you've ever loved – again - but at the end of the day, what you've never had you don't miss; whereas this Melissa – not in the same league as Cruella, of course, but you wouldn't kick her out of bed, either, at least not unless you wanted something fetched from downstairs. Actually, to be brutally honest, a bloody sight better-looking than Cruella (and that's not saying much) and not nearly so bloody stroppy. If there's one thing a wise person avoids when selecting a future helpmeet, it's bloody stroppiness.

‘Here,' I called out without looking round (no need),' can you get Sky Sport in this godforsaken dump?'

She didn't answer (they get moody sometimes; the best thing is to take no notice), so I kicked off my shoes and closed my eyes for a nap.

Not a sensible thing to do in Elfland, where they don't sleep but where they can fast-forward you. As far as I was concerned, I'd hardly closed my eyes when someone prodded my arm. I did the eyelid routine in reverse and muttered, ‘Now what?'

To my surprise, I was surrounded by elves. Hundreds of the buggers, all looking at me as if I'd just kicked my football through their greenhouse window.

‘Not now,' I grunted. ‘Piss off, all of you, I'm trying to get some sleep.'

‘Sleep?' said an elf I hadn't seen before.

‘Yes,' I replied, ‘it's where you shut your eyes and keep them shut. I used to do a lot of it at one time, but then you clowns ram-raided your way into my life, and I haven't managed to get any kip for over ten years. Go away.'

Silence, and plenty of it. Somehow, a couple of hundred people not saying anything all at the same time is a damn' sight quieter than an empty room. Spooky, too.

‘Well?' I snapped – I wasn't in the mood to play games with a bunch of Enid Blyton characters. ‘Do you actually want something, or have you all come here to gawp at me?'

An elf in the front row cleared her throat. Cute little thing, if you liked blondes. ‘There was something,' she said.

‘Oh joy,' I grunted. ‘Well, spit it out then, if you must. Then I can sort you lot out and get back to my snooze.'

‘It's about—' The spokeself fidgeted with the sleeve of her tunic. Very irritating. ‘It's about you,' she said.

‘Yes?'

‘You see—'

‘Oh, for pity's sake. Get on with it or go and play hopscotch in the minefield.'

‘You see,' the spokeself said, ‘you've been here a while now, and—'

‘Don't be ridiculous. I only just got here.'

Immediately she looked down at her feet, obviously unwilling to contradict me. Another elf stepped forward. ‘Actually,' he said,' that's not strictly true.'

‘Huh?'

‘Not strictly,' said the elf, slowly turning purple with embarrassment. Very strange effect it was, too, given the greenish tinge of the elfin complexion. ‘In actual fact, you've been here six weeks, and during that time—'

‘No, I bloody well—' I hesitated. No, dammit, the bugger was perfectly correct. I could remember every detail of it. Good fun, too; lots of sitting about being waited on hand, foot and finger by a bunch of obedient if exquisitely dull elves. The thought that I'd missed all that made me very angry indeed. ‘You bastards,' I growled. ‘What the hell did you want to go and do that for? I'd have enjoyed all that.'

‘Yes,' said the elf (he was now the colour of a ripe plum, didn't suit him a bit), ‘that's more or less the point. You enjoyed it very much indeed. We didn't.'

I couldn't see any problem with that. ‘So?'

The elf shuffled his feet. Never actually seen anybody do that before. ‘Look,' he said, ‘no offence, but to be brutally honest with you, we're all a bit fed up about it. You see, because the last six weeks have been - well, not a whole bundle of laughs for any of us, it means we've all had to miss out on them. And, well, it's a bit inconvenient, actually.'

I shrugged. ‘Tough shit,' I said. ‘Hey, don't look at me with that constipated-yak expression. If you didn't want to miss out, you shouldn't have fast-forwarded. Especially,' I added, remembering how very, very angry I was, ‘without asking my permission first. Bloody annoying habit of yours, and if you do it again I'll kick your bum. Got that?'

No answer; in fact, the concerted absence of answer was deafening.

‘And you can pack that in while you're at it,' I said. ‘From now on, anybody who stands there looking at me without saying anything will be deemed to be asking for my boot up their backside. All right?'

Melissa sort of nudged her way to the front of the crowd. About time, I said to myself. Why is it they're never around when you want them? ‘We're very sorry,' she said, ‘but it isn't.'