The Kimota Anthology Read Free Page A

straight in front of a car. That made much more sense.
    Gerry.
    Somehow, I could hear his voice. I rubbed my face, screwed my fists into my eye sockets, shook my head. I could still hear his voice, then I could hear the shrill Liverpudlian voice of a famous TV star — and the sounds of an audience laughing.
    I looked up.
    There was a television set high up on a shelf, just off to my left.
    And there was Gerry — on the screen. Chatting to the TV star.
    My senses were still a little blurry . I tried to rise again and felt the pain, thought about ringing the bell at the side of the bed for assistance.
    “So tonight’s the night,” said the woman in the bright red hair, “After all these years. You must be feeling very excited.”
    “More than excited,” said Gerry’s familiar voice. “I’m proud. Just proud that I’m part of such a big moment in Rock and Roll history.”
    “So no one’s heard the song, none of the band back there have rehearsed it?”
    “That’s right. This is the first time that his last song will have been playied to an audience. Just like the band back there, the vieweres will be hearing Deep Blue just as Buddy composed it — for the very first time.”
    “I can’t wait, chuck. Believe me. So, viewers tune in for tonight’s Big Event - just after the regional news…”
    And that’s when I tore the IV wires out of my arm and shoved the stand aside. The wires sprayed liquid over the bedspread. I knew that the pain was going to be bad, but hadn’t appreciated just how bad as I pulled myself out of bed as my strapped-up leg swung down to bang against the mattress. The pain almost made me throw up. I gritted my teeth, felt the enamel scraping — and hobbled to the cupboard. I was right, my clothes were in there. I dragged them out as the loud and brassy television theme filled the room. My head was still swimming as I dragged the clothes on. There was a walking stick beside a chair in the corner. I grabbed it and hobbled to the door. So far, no one had noticed that I’d come around. I staggered, putting too much weight on my splinted broken leg. This time, I did throw up; reeling to one side as it came out of me.
    In the next moment, I was out of the ward and hobbling down the corridor head down. I hoped to God that no one would stop me. Each step of the way, I gritted my teeth or chewed at my lips with the pain. By the time I’d reached the end of the corridor, there was a salt taste of blood in my mouth.
    Outside, it had begun to rain. I stood aside as an ambulance pulled up at the entrance, kept my head down and tried to pretend that I was just a patient having a breath of fresh air as the back doors of the ambulance banged open and two of the crew loaded out some poor old guy on a stretcher with an oxygen mask on his face. As soon as they passed me, I hobbled out into the night.
    How long had I been lying there in that hospital bed? Days, weeks, months?
    Prime time television special, Gerry had said. How long would it have taken him to fix up a deal like that?
    I stared out into the darkness. I’d never make it to the main road with this leg, and there was no guarantee that I would be able to flag down a taxi. I had to go back inside the hospital, find a telephone, hope that I wasn’t spotted. How the hell could I convince anyone at the studios?
    Then I saw the driver’s keys, still in the ignition of the ambulance.
    Now or never.
    I yanked open the door, threw the walking stick inside, drew a deep breath and began to clamber in. My leg bumped against the door as I climbed it — and I’m sure that I passed out then. In a kind of dream I saw myself being hauled out of the ambulance, put onto a stretcher and taken back inside. But then the dream dissipated, and there I was, half-in half-out, lying across the seat. My leg was on fire. I struggled up and pulled the door shut. The walking stick was going to have to serve the purpose of my damaged leg on the accelerator.
    I gunned the