The Collector of Remarkable Stories Read Free Page B

feverish convalescence. An old fashioned commode, a small stove, a pile of what could have been old coats and an oil lamp occupied the rest of the space. A long ladder in the centre of the room seemed to stand vertically of its own free-will stretching up into the darkness. It could have been a mile high for all Margie knew.
    Auguste continued talking whilst stirring a large pot on the small stove. "Would you like something to eat? I have some soup on the boil. It’s nothing special. Some beef, potato, mushrooms and a sprinkle of herbs. It’s one of my mother’s favourite recipes. I’m not a great cook but I promise you won’t be poisoned ..."
    Margie lay still, taking in the surroundings. She tried very hard to remember what had happened. It was a struggle to think coherently through the pain hammering away at her skull. In her mind’s eye her head had been crushed, her skull broken into tiny shards which were now piercing her brain and the backs of her eyes.
    "Do I know you?" she finally asked.
    Auguste shook his head sympathetically. "Can you remember anything?"
    "Nothing," she replied. "Nothing at all."
    It was another two months before Margie was strong enough to get off her mattress. She was still unable to remember anything of her life prior to knocking the Gravitonius off its feet, but she felt an odd sense of relief, like a child who had never tasted sugar and is suddenly thrust into a room full of marshmallows and liquorice, she devoured the stillness inside her brain. And because she had no memories so to speak of, she had very few thoughts. Occasionally she allowed herself to think about the ladder and where it might lead to. But her thoughts quickly evaporated into the dense silence. She didn't feel ready to fill her brain with whatever was up there. She felt safe and happy where she was.
    Auguste descended the ladder every morning to empty her commode, tend to her wounds and prepare her food then disappeared until the evening when the routine was repeated. And that was all Margie needed for now. She didn’t want to know where he disappeared to or whether he lived in the building or how she got there or why he was being so nice to her.
    Auguste, on the other hand, clearly liked the sound of his own voice, his favourite topic of conversation being himself. Occasionally he asked Margie a question. But they were usually questions that she was unable to answer: How old are you? Where are you from? What is your favourite food? Do you like reading?
    But mostly he talked about himself.
    Margie was adept at blocking out the noise and ignoring him – unless he was describing her wounds and how they were healing nicely. He was none the wiser. He was just happy to have someone to talk to. But one evening Auguste came to check on Margie and was unusually quiet. He emptied the commode in silence. He pulled a piece of bread and a handful of dried sausage wrapped in cloth from his inside pocket in silence. He checked on Margie’s head wounds in silence. He boiled a pan of water in silence.
    The silence seemed almost deafening in its conspicuousness. But there was something more. Something a little twitchy about him that disturbed Margie's sensibilities.
    "Are you okay?" she asked.
    Auguste stopped what he was doing and froze for a moment. Margie could see him force his shoulders down and relax his face into a wide smile. He turned to Margie and laughed nervously.
    "I had some unwelcome guests this morning. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."
    Auguste’s voice trailed off and he allowed his smile to drop. He looked tense and muttered something under his breath.
    "You'll be damned if what ?" asked Margie, not having caught the final bit.
    Auguste ignored her question and, with the same smile painted onto his face, he scooped up Margie's dinner tray. "So anyway," he trilled, "how are we feeling today?"
    "My head still hurts."
    "It will do. You ran headlong into a six tonne monster. Knocked it right off its feet." He