Pongo #70

Pila

They actually moved me. Unbelievable. 11 written and verbal requests: nothing. One punch/smother incident: rocketspeed action. I don’t think the two are related, my requests and the move. They claim it’s out of concern for my mental health, what with everything that went on inches from my head. If you look outside, however, the real reason bites you in the face. An anthill of photographers squirming over each other, cameramen wielding grey-fuzzed microphones like foils, notepads slapping thighs impatiently, make-up artists twitching at the slightest movement. Of course someone was going to tell them where she was. It doesn’t matter who because given the right time, place and price, any of her loyal entourage would have sold her. Now it’s simply a case of how well-staffed the hospital is, or whether they can be bothered to maintain a watch on the door.

That’s the unofficial method of getting to her. The nurses have realised since the move, when my body actually bent as they lifted it into the chair, that I am still in need of feeding from time to time. They have apparently decided, however,, that I have gone deaf, because many of them have been fairly careless with their tongues.

I know for a fact that the doctors are in talks with the ‘pests’ outside. Bit by bit, money is trickling into a sliver of possibility, freezing, expanding and widening the crack. They want to film in her room. At first the talk erred towards a tasteful documentary. Now it’s turning into a serial, some kind of drama, maybe even a feature length thing I don’t know whether they think she’ll be prepared to star in it, or whether they’ll recruit someone else. Either way, they probably want this sea hag out of the way. There are agencies for glamorous granny actors, so nobody needs me to clog up the screen with my aphotogenic visage.

Which suits me. She’s been moved too, you see, which is why I believe the rumours. They’ll probably be customising the room within the week, and if no fairy godmother comes to Gilligan’s aid, they’re in for a shock when a stray work experience kid clutching six macchiatos wanders into the Bluebeard’s hidden chamber in the bowels of the hospital, reads the name on the chart of the near-corpse and runs screaming to their boss.

Who am I kidding? The doctors know exactly what they’re doing, and they’ll no doubt work out a price for the revelation of Gilligan’s true age blahblahblah. The contract is probably in the third draft stage already. And as much as I’m enjoying having my arse wiped here, I think I want out before that happens. Someone was saying – one of the administrative staff, I think – that Danver and Fembs were sentenced last week at the Rairly, so I’m unlikely to be jumped by them the second I turn the corner. If I leave and walk out into the streets now, people will let me jump queues. I’ll walk onto any transport in the city for free and be given seats and arms to lean on. I would put up with a few muggings to have a stranger touch my arm as together we cross the road I have crossed a thousand times in peak hour. That warm vice on the elbow is worth a few lost thousand at least.

I shouldn’t be surprised if this entire hospital starts turning into some kind of set. The wall will thin to chipboard and wobble when leant against. I’ll look at the breezeblock walls one day, then the next look again and notice each is made of paint, nothing more, the divides just black lines that can be smudged by the hand, pretending to separate components, when it is all part of one block. I think I already see microphones peeping from behind curtains, but that could just be shadows.

Repeat after me. Paranoia is not awareness.

Miffy

“Miffy, hiiii! This is Jexa. Just calling – Jexa Joseffone, sorry – to ask if you'd be interested in taking part in a show we're doing on the twenty-eighth on people who've used Marley type measures to lengthen their adult film career. Provisional title 'No Silicon For Me, Only Latex!'” What do you say? There's going to be you and a couple others – those fourteen-slash-twenty-seven year old twins from Drephoa who claim to do fucking anything with or without a pulse, maybe this new girl, Fenn Harte with the squirting technique and baby face. We're thinking we can get hold of some run-down old porn girls, the kind with knifed-up rippling tit implants, and compare their bodies to yours. It'll be controversial, but I can guarantee you'll come out of it looking good. At worst you'll look exploited by Marley, and that's a one way ticket to chain-interview city. How about you in that sugarsweet Lolita number you wore for “Candy Cane Adventures”? I think people will really warm to you – bring 'em over all maternal, long as you don't swear too much. Anyway, call me back – you know you want to – on oh-eight-seven-”

Andaw

Would she do it? If Gilligan died, would Cadderine shoot herself, or would she wait for the corrupt cells festering on her stomach to pock away at her?

Oh Insa, I wish you could see me. I'm almost loveable.

Insa

We walk the ground into rubber. This effect brought to you by sparse eating and worry. She draws shapes on her hand and I sweat and mouth swearwords for a while, looping and dramdramdramming on the tarmac, the street signs seagulls and my sister someone's discarded catch. No back issues. The newsagent's face follows me for a strong portion of the wander, and at times I feel like throwing myself on the ground hard enough to break something vital. Then I work out half an ill-digested plan.

Andaw

One long and two short and there she is.

“Can we come in? Only we're sort of on the run. But she's innocent.”

I step back, sweep an imaginary curtain aside, and she comes in, this mythical creature with an even more mythical pale elf in her wake. As she ushers Cadderine in, Insa stops and looks at me, her eyes examining my face like a soft-gloved hand.

“God, you look worse than ever.”

I kick aside a cardboard courier box to let her pass.