And Richard nodded, and he did.
Jessica checked her watch and increased her pace. Richard discreetly flicked a pound coin back through the air toward the man in the doorway, who caught it in one grimy hand.
“There wasn’t any problem with the reservations, was there?” asked Jessica. And Richard, who was not much good at lying when faced with a direct question, said, “Ah.”
She had chosen wrongly—the corridor ended in a blank wall. Normally that would hardly have given her pause, but she was so tired, so hungry, in so much pain . . . She leaned against the wall, feeling the brick’s roughness against her face. She was gulping breath, hiccuping and sobbing. Her arm was cold, and her left hand was numb. She could go no farther, and the world was beginning to feel very distant. She wanted to stop, to lie down, and to sleep for a hundred years.
“Oh, bless my little black soul, Mister Vandemar, do you see what I see?” The voice was soft, close: they must have been nearer to her than she had imagined. “I spy, with my little eye, something that’s going to be—“
“Dead in a minute, Mister Croup,” said the flat voice, from above her.
“Our principal will be delighted.”
And the girl pulled whatever she could find deep inside her soul, from all the pain, and the hurt, and the fear. She was spent, burnt out, and utterly exhausted. She had nowhere to go, no power left, no time. “If it’s the last door I open,” she prayed, silently, to the Temple, to the Arch. “Somewhere . . . anywhere . . . safe . . . ” and then she thought, wildly, “Somebody.”
And, as she began to pass out, she tried to open a door.
As the darkness took her, she heard Mr. Croup’s voice, as if from a long way away. It said, “Bugger and blast.”
Jessica and Richard walked down the sidewalk toward the restaurant. She had her arm through his, and was walking as fast as her heels permitted. He hurried to keep up. Streetlights and the fronts of closed stores illuminated their path. They passed a stretch of tall, looming buildings, abandoned and lonely, bounded by a high brick wall.
“You are honestly telling me you had to promise them an extra fifty pounds for our table tonight? You are an idiot, Richard,” said Jessica, her dark eyes flashing.
“They had lost my reservation. And they said all the tables were booked.” Their steps echoed off the high walls.
“They’ll probably have us sitting by the kitchen,” said Jessica. “Or the door. Did you tell them it was for Mister Stockton?”
“Yes,” replied Richard.
Jessica sighed. She continued to drag him along, as a door opened in the wall, a little way ahead of them. Someone stepped out and stood swaying for one long terrible moment, and then collapsed to the concrete. Richard shivered and stopped in his tracks. Jessica tugged him into motion.
“Now, when you’re talking to Mister Stockton, you must make sure you don’t interrupt him. Or disagree with him—he doesn’t like to be disagreed with. When he makes a joke, laugh. If you’re in any doubt as to whether or not he’s made a joke, look at me. I’ll . . . mm, tap my forefinger.”
They had reached the person on the sidewalk. Jessica stepped over the crumpled form. Richard hesitated. “Jessica?”
“You’re right. He might think I’m bored,” she mused. “I know,” she said brightly, “if he makes a joke, I’ll rub my earlobe.”
“Jessica?” He could hot believe that she was simply ignoring the figure at their feet.
“What?” She was not pleased to be jerked out of her reverie.
“Look.”
He pointed to the sidewalk. The person was face down, and enveloped in bulky clothes; Jessica took his arm and tugged him toward her. “Oh. I see. If you pay them any attention, Richard, they’ll walk all over you. They all have homes, really. Once she’s slept it off, I’m sure she’ll be fine.” She? Richard looked down. It was a girl. Jessica continued, “Now, I’ve told Mister Stockton that we . . . ” Richard was down on one knee. “Richard? What are you doing?”
“She isn’t drunk,” said Richard. “She’s hurt.” He looked at his fingertips. “She’s bleeding.”
Jessica looked down at him, nervous and puzzled. “We’re going to be late,” she pointed out.
“She’s hurt.”
Jessica looked back at the girl on the sidewalk. Priorities: Richard had no priorities. “Richard. We’re going to be late. Someone else will be along; someone else will help her.”
The girl’s face was crusted with dirt, and her clothes were wet with blood. “She’s hurt,” he said, simply. There was an expression on his face that Jessica hadn’t seen before.