Read Online Five Miles From Outer Hope by Nicola Barker - Free Book Online Page A

‘This is not as bad as it seems. I actually know this animal.’ The second? ‘My father’s a gynaecologist.’
    Virtually a life history, really, when all the silly woman actually wanted – or needed – was a rather more basic but nonetheless suitably cringing apology.
    More fool she.
    Oh dear . I duly deputize myself to mediate a peace between the two warring parties (that’s Big and The Masturbator – Ms Penny Smolly having hissy-fitted and high-tailed it almost immediately after).
    To say Big is cross hardly does proper justice to his colossal rage. Don’t get me wrong. The man is not against masturbation per se . He simply thinks there’s a time and a place. And This Time and This Place just don’t happen to be it.
    He’s probably right. To try and calm him down I back him up assiduously, I chip in gamely, I parrot, I chirrup, I echo. Mrs Mary Whitehouse herself would’ve been hard-pressed to find a spare ounce of moral laxity in me.
    Of course I have motives ulterior .
    We happen to be conducting this particular conversation ensconced downstairs in the ladies’ loo, accompanied by Feely, who is squirming on the tiling like a greased pig in a pie shop. The cold-water tap is gushing and we are struggling to hold his rapidly purpling paw beneath it. I am in charge of the mug-end, Big is in charge of his wrist, Feely is in charge of absolutely nothing, his foul temper included.
    ‘La Roux’s plainly demented,’ I tell Big, turning the tap on a little harder, ‘even muskrats have better instincts.’
    Big stares at me suspiciously and then shakes his head. He’s small but he’s on the ball. He plainly smells something. My odious perfidy, probably.
    ‘So who cares ’, I continue, ‘if his stupid father delivered Feely? What does it matter? That was four whole years ago. And look what a nightmarish liability he turned into.’
    I give the mug a twist and a yank. Feely yowls. It loosens a fraction. I push it under the tap again. My stomach is soaking.
    Big adjusts his position. ‘Why not give me a break’, he growls, ‘from your pathetic attempts at reverse psychology? You seem to forget that I’m the same old man who spends his time watching that ginger moron Denis Waterman displaying five times your level of clumsy fudge in The bloody Sweeney.’
    My head snaps back. ‘Waterman’s a blonde,’ I gurgle.
    ‘From where I’m standing’, Big continues, ‘it’s very clear that this devious South African has somehow managed – no conspired – to win you over. Heaven alone knows how or why, but he’s done it.’
    Well I never. I’m so astonished by Big’s unexpected gust of insight that my grip momentarily relaxes. He notices. ‘Don’t let up,’ he grumbles, ‘keep trying. I think it’s finally coming.’
    I still don’t react. He peers up at me, morosely.
    ‘Uh… that’s probably exactly what Penny Smolly was thinking,’ I splutter.
    Big does not smile. He’s struggling to keep Feely’s wrist firm. Feely has helpfully removed all the weight from his feet and is now just poignantly dangling. I get into gear and twist again. As I do so I feel a very gradual easing. Then pop ! It’s out.
    Not his hand, unfortunately, but his shoulder bone, which slips from its socket with all the smooth ease of a bloated bee from a bluebell. Except not nearly so quietly. In fact the astonishing howl this four year old promptly delivers would strike envy into the hearts of a hundred-strong convention of Primal Screamers. He literally bellows .
    Yikes! We both drop him so fast it’s like he’s suddenly on fire, and the poor kid’s barely hit the floor (with a bang) before he’s up on his feet again and hopping around the ladies like a badly-injured baby ape, his entire right arm and shoulder hanging completely off-kilter. It’s hideous .
    Big (always an ass in a crisis) flies into an immediate panic. The tide’s in. The tractor’s out. How the heck will we manage to get the doctor over? I’m