The Imaginary (21 page)

He banged back against the bed, her cold hands gripping him.

Hospital beds have wheels and someone had obviously left the brakes off on Amanda's. Each time they knocked into it, as they struggled, it rolled backwards and bumped against the wall.

Anyone in the corridor outside would have seen a bed banging itself against a wall, in the half-dark.
No wonder people believe in ghosts
, Rudger thought. But ghosts were of no use to him. What he really needed was help, and help wasn't coming.

He knew what
was
coming though, what
must
be coming, what was almost certainly on its way up the stairs even now, never mind visiting hours and hospital rules: something big, something bald and something hungry.

The bed banged a third time against the wall and there was a groan from behind him. A small one. Then a cough and a moan.

‘Oh,' groaned Amanda in a small, sleepy voice.

‘Amanda!' Rudger shouted, a sudden bubble of hope bobbing up inside him.

The
girl, clutching him coldly, hands like knots of seaweed, hissed in his face. Her breath was dead. It was death.

He twisted enough to see the outline of Amanda sitting up in bed. She was touching her bandaged head with her good arm.

‘Amanda, help!' he cried, between breaths.

But she didn't hear him. She didn't see him. She didn't see either of them.

With one hand he gripped the slender sapling, and heaved himself up so his backside was resting on the frame of the metal bedstead. He was able to lift his feet up and get them against the girl's chest. With all his strength he half-pushed, half-kicked her off him, knocking the clipboard to the floor in the process.

Amanda yawned.

Where was she? She looked around blearily and yawned again.

It didn't look like her bedroom. It didn't smell like home. She'd been having the strangest dreams.

Then the bed rocked. There was a clatter as something fell to the floor.

This wasn't normal.

She felt light-headed and groggy, she ached all over, was thirsty, hungry and ever so tired, but when the bed shook again she blinked away some of the sleep, pushed the pain to one side and sat up straight.

She looked around.

She
guessed she was in a hospital. Her left arm was in a plaster cast and throbbed dully. Her mum's coat was draped on the back of the chair by her bed. Her head ached terribly. She'd been in an accident of some sort. She remembered running and there being a car. A hospital was the right place to wake up.

None of that surprised her. But there was a tree growing from the foot of the bed. A sapling, she thought. And it was wobbling. That was odd. The way it wobbled like that, as if it had been caught in a breeze, was weird because there was no breeze.

It was a pretty tree, she thought, and as she watched it grew taller, pushing aside ceiling tiles and letting daylight into the room.

She felt better with the addition of a little light and wondered where her mum was.

And then the door opened.

Mr Bunting shut the door behind him.

As he glanced at the imaginary tree he sneered and it withered. The leaves shrivelled on the branches and the branches wizened and drooped.

‘You're awake, little girl,' he said, his moustache fluffling with each word. He looked round the room. ‘But not, I think,
awake
.'

‘Who are you?' Amanda asked. ‘Are you a doctor?'

‘No!' Rudger shouted. ‘He's not a doctor!'

He
was still struggling with the girl. She'd twisted around and managed to bend one of his arms up behind his back. She'd wound his long red hair tight in her other fist. The fight was more or less over. He was caught.

She pulled him backwards, into the middle of the room, and offered him to Mr Bunting like a cat offers a twitching bird to its owner.

The man held out his hand and touched Rudger's cheek.

‘Are you sure this is him?' he asked.

A putrid hiss escaped the girl's lips.

‘I see. Well, Rudger the Pink, you've been a nuisance. Given us a right run around and about, haven't you? See this?' He pointed to a graze on his forehead. ‘Falling over your badly-mannered stinking cat, that was. You
hurt
me, little Rudger. But, my dear little pink-frocked friend, even luck has a date of expiration, and guess what? Yours is today.'

Rudger knew what would happen next, he wanted to run, to fight free and leap away, but the girl had him frozen to the spot.

‘No,' he said.

It took most of his strength to say the single word. The girl's ghoulish grip had drained all his energy. He was beaten. Finally done for. For good.

‘Who are you talking to?' Amanda asked. ‘Who's Roger? What's that hissing?'

The
man who she had thought at first was a doctor but who she now thought probably wasn't (mainly because he was stood in the middle of the room talking to himself ) turned to look at her.

‘Oh, look at that,' he said, from under his moustache. ‘She can't see you.'

Even though he looked into her eyes as he said it, she had the distinct feeling he wasn't talking to her. Her head ached. There was something wrong.

He turned away and went on. ‘She doesn't remember you, Rudger. A bang on the head can do that. So sad. Worth a tear perhaps? Sweeten the flavour. I'd best have you before you Fade. Think of me as a friend, kind Mr Bunting doing a Friend a favour.'

She
had
had a bang on the head, he was right, and she knew that made people lose their memories. It was called amnesia. She remembered that. But what was it she had forgotten? He was right. There
was
a hole there somewhere. She waggled the tongue of her memory in the space of it. A definite hole.

But what it was that was missing, she couldn't say.

The room was in half-darkness, the sapling had died, the ceiling tiles had fallen back into place. She was feeling sick and tired. Ever so tired.

She lay back down on her pillows. It would be easier to sleep, wouldn't it? She needed her rest, didn't she? That's what they always said on the telly, wasn't it?

So tired, she felt her eyes falling shut under their own weight.

‘Amanda!' Rudger shouted again, summoning the strength to speak from deep in his despair, his panic and anger. ‘Help me!'

She'd slumped back on to the big white pillows.

The fact that she could see Mr Bunting but couldn't see
him
was like salt on a grazed knee. It was an insult. It stung. She was
his
friend, not Mr Bunting's. If she saw anyone it ought to have been him.

It was unfair, it was unkind, and it hurt him inside.

With Mr Bunting looming, and the distant desert smell of rotting spices edging into the room, Rudger put the very last of his energy into one more struggle.

He bucked and the girl stumbled. Her grip didn't loosen, her hand was still tangled up tight in his hair, but at least he'd made her stumble.

They toppled backwards and banged against the cupboard marked
For patient use only
.

With a retching gurgling hiss the girl lurched upright and shoved Rudger forwards again, in front of her, until they were stood exactly where they'd been before.