Part 21 (1/2)

Who are you?

That's better.

I asked a question.

You know who I am. I'm the source of all your misery and all your delight, your ch.o.r.eographer, your master of ceremonies. I've waltzed you in and out of danger, but now I'm afraid we've run out of entertainments. It's time to finish the job.

I don't want to be finished and I'm not a job.

What's wrong with a little closure? You might enjoy getting to the end.

By 'the end', I presume you mean dead?

Aren't you curious?

No.

Perhaps you're enjoying yourself too much as you are?

I've been in worse places.

You certainly have.

Whose fault is that?

Now there's an interesting question, whose fault indeed?

Let me guess.

I do broad strokes, Justin. The detail is your department.

Broad strokes, how? Like cras.h.i.+ng a DC-IO on to a sixpence where I'm supposed to be standing?

Yes. You extricated yourself admirably, I thought.

Oh did I? An admirable gibbering wreck, am I?

s.h.i.+t happens, as they say in America. What about all the nice things I've done for you?

Like?

Like Peter and Dorothea. Where would you be without them?

You did that for me, did you?

In a manner of speaking. Let's just say certain relations.h.i.+ps would not have occurred had you not found yourself in this predicament.

Great trade-off. How can I ever thank you?

What about Agnes?

What about her?

She did quite nicely with your rites of pa.s.sage.

Nicely for whom? It was a disaster.

I see. So the good things are all your own device, the bad all mine?

Sounds about right.

I don't think you understand me at all.

Ditto. I'm going to sleep.

You are asleep. But before you go, I need your signature on this simple form. There is absolutely no risk, you pay nothing up front, and if you are not totally satisfied Yes, what if I'm not?

Ah, but you will be.

Justin?

Justin?

Pleasant dreams.

56.

On Christmas Eve, Justin was settled into a busy ward. It was hoped that the increased activity might encourage his return to consciousness. Peter and Dorothea arrived by train at mid-afternoon and walked the ten minutes from station to hospital through dirty grey streets. All around them people bustled with last-minute shopping, bad-tempered and resentful at the exigencies of the giving season.

At the hospital, Peter's talent for invisibility proved more useful than ever. He had a way of slipping in quietly to sit with his friend when everyone else had gone home, or gone to lunch, or simply become bored and wandered off. Sometimes he brought a book. Other times he just stared into s.p.a.ce thinking, or talked quietly to Justin, or to himself.

He wondered about Boy, searched for him every night when he went home. Dorothea hadn't seen him either.

'Your dog's missing again, Justin. I don't want you to worry, that's not why I'm telling you. It's just that I get the feeling he needs you to exist. Needs you conscious, that is.' Peter paused. 'I wish you could see Dorothea's portrait of you. She's drawn you and Boy and Alice like some kind of secular holy family. It's a very beautiful picture.'