The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) Read Free

stiffness, of course.’
    He shook his head. No more than usual.
    The doctor bent over him. A grey-haired aquiline profile with large black-rimmed glasses.
    ‘Hey, doc, you’re not so ugly after all.’ He grinned, ignoring the pain that shot through his jaw.
    ‘Neither are you, now. You look a lot less like a TV aerial than you did. Try and sit up.’
    He did so, his lower jaw immediately pulling at him. Odd to feel its unsupported weight, like a pendulum attached to his lower skull. He felt himself dribbling and wiped his mouth.
    ‘Christ, it’s like learning all over again.’
    ‘It’ll be like that for a day or two, until you get used to being responsible for it.’
    ‘What about the rest?’
    The doctor paused. ‘Longer, I’m afraid. You won’t be able to begin walking for some time yet, but the arm should be gaining in strength all the time...’
    Time. Well, I’ve plenty of that.
    The words he made were large, clumsy, with no sharp corners. It was as if they had been wrapped in dough. He still carried his notebook with him to cope with those occasions when he was too tired to make the effort to speak, or when those who tried to understand him were particularly obtuse. Doody, being Doody, understood every word he said, and frequently told him off for mumbling on purpose.
    ‘Now you’ve got that space-age hat rack off your face, you should try and have a go at the old cow Bisbee, sir. She thought your dogs weren’t on one leash, if you know what I mean. She’s a one to fucking talk. All she’s got between her ears is aspirin and elastoplast.’
    And Riven laughed for the first time in a long time, though his face ached when he did so.
    The white bulk of Nurse Bisbee entered the room like a ship in full sail. Doody rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, shit, wait for it. I’m probably supposed to be wiping arses or licking floors or something.’
    ‘Doody, shouldn’t you be somewhere else at this time of day?’ asked Nurse Bisbee, frowning. ‘Like the laundry room?’
    ‘Why yes, massah, I is on my way,’ Doody retorted, exiting with a nod and a wink to Riven. Nurse Bisbee continued frowning in his direction after he had gone, and then she became brisk. She plumped up the cushions at Riven’s back, manhandling him like a child. ‘Now, Mr Riven, I hope you’re feeling strong today, because you have a visitor, and a very important-looking man he is. I think he must be a lawyer or something. I’ll just make you comfortable and then I’ll send him in. Have you got your notebook handy? Good. I’ll go and tell him to come in.’
    A visitor, come to talk to the newly vocal Michael Riven. Shit. A short, thickset man in a sober suit that hung on him uncomfortably, as though it wished it were somewhere else. His face was square and ruddy, the black hair almost militarily short. He might have been a blacksmith, or a sergeant major, were it not for the softness of the eyes. There was a smile on the face, aimed at Riven. His hand jutted out.
    ‘Hello, Mike.’
    Riven returned his grip momentarily, a smile poking its way on to his lips. ‘Hugh,’ he said clearly. The man was his editor, midwife to the stories he had written back when the world was young.
    The man called Hugh sat down beside Riven’s wheelchair. His chair scraped as he pulled it forward. He seemed reluctant to meet Riven’s eyes.
    Christ. Is it that forbidding?
    Finally he did. He shrugged. ‘Oh, hell. There’s not much to say, I suppose.’
    ‘No,’ said Riven, the word clear as glass in his mouth.
    Hugh flapped a hand. ‘I’m supposed to be here to give you a bucketful of sympathy and then get down to the nitty-gritty in a decent space of time and ask you about your writing.’ He grinned, looking boyish for a brief moment. ‘My tongue’s as dry as day-old bread. This sort of thing is much easier under the civilising influence of alcohol. But that’s taboo, I hear.’
    Riven nodded. ‘I’d sell my bloody soul for a pint.’
    The ice