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.'
'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
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. Cliche 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
