Wish You Were Here Read Free Page B

whole recognisable anything. When the kid finally realised that the swimming techniques he’d learned in the municipal swimming baths of the West Midlands didn’t seem to work in the admittedly unusual waters of Lake Chicopee, the reflection healed up over his head with surprising speed. Four and a half seconds after the first splash, the ripples had stopped and the mirror was unbroken once more.
    You get seven years for breaking conventional mirrors. That’s a conditional discharge and an apology from the judge compared to the penalty for disturbing this one.
    Glug. A last few air bubbles floated up and burst.
    The duck put its head down, and dived.
    Oh God , Wesley Higgins said to himself as the water filled his lungs, I’m drowning .
    Entirely against his will, he breathed in water through his nose. It felt -
    Good. Odd, that. Hell, it felt healthy . Fresh, clean water and plenty of exercise. Just what the doctor ordered.
    Hang about. I’m not drowning. I’m bloody well floating. I’m floating on top of the water.
    Surely not; but it felt like floating. Mind you, the water in his lungs felt like air, so who was he to judge? Every scrap of logic remaining in his oxygen-starved brain yelled at him that this was Death; if not the real thing, then an introductory free sample designed to encourage him to sign on for the full course of treatment. No way he could still be alive.
    And yet here he was. Floating on his back, like a damn Poohstick. And alive too, by every indication he could monitor. For a start, don’t drowned people float face down, just a few inches under the surface? He’d read somewhere - at school, probably - that they do.
    He opened his eyes and saw the sky, oval-encircled by a rampart of hills and a fuzzy ring of trees. All perfectly normal, except -
    Except that they were all back to front, turned through a hundred and eighty degrees, mirror-fashion. For two pins, he could make himself believe that his body, the long, embarrassing thing he’d shuffled around in all these years, really was bobbing along upside down on the surface of the lake. And here he was, floating serenely on the underside and staring at the sky. And breathing the water.
    Query: was the water safe to breathe in these parts, or should he have brought along an aqualung full of Perrier?
    Did they even have Perrier in Heaven?
    Who said anything about Heaven?
    The voice seemed to come from inside his head. Maybe, he reflected, this was how it started for Joan of Arc. One day she’d been relaxing in a nice pine-scented bath, just like I’m doing now, and suddenly there were voices in there between her ears; quiet, whispering little voices just like this one, saying wasn’t it a scandal, all those English people coming over here buying weekend cottages and second homes, forcing property prices up, writing books about how comical the locals are, it’s high time somebody did something about it. And the next thing she knew, of course, there she was tied to this big hunk of wood and some grinning bastard was waving a burning torch at her and saying, Now then, this may hurt a little. With hindsight, she’d have done better to buy a Sony Walkman and drown the buggers out till they went away.
    Joan of Who?
    Arc. It’s a place. In France.
    Excuse me, but I think you’re wrong there. Because according to what you’ve got in your memory banks, it’s either a segment of a circle or a big boat full of animals. No, hang on, I tell a lie. Here we are, Joan of Arc. Hey, going on what you’ve got in here about her, she doesn’t seem like a terribly nice person.
    â€˜She was a saint , damnit,’ Wesley said aloud. ‘And who the hell are you, anyway?’
    Would it help if I came out of your ear? No offence, but it’s not exactly a welcoming environment, not unless you happen to be a bee.
    Something went pfzzzz ! in his ear, and a moment later he caught sight of a