Read Online Five Miles From Outer Hope by Nicola Barker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nicola Barker
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still pathetically fumbling to turn that damn tap off like a sweaty-pawed, slack-jawed, cack-handed water lover (like father, like daughter). All is chaos.
Then suddenly something rather magnificent happens. As if from nowhere (okay, it seems likely the little pervert was hiding in a cubicle all the while, but I only actually realize this after), La Roux crashes into our crazy-palpitating, terror-struck environs, catches a firm hold of Feely, slams him down onto the floor, straightens his back, grabs his shoulder, gets him to count to three, applies a monumentally well-judged amount of force (but only very briefly) to the offending region, and then click , manages to shunt that pesky bone straight back into its socket again.
The whole affair takes approximately seven seconds. In fact the drama’s all over so quickly that Feely can’t help feeling a fraction disgruntled and yanks the plastic mug off his fist just to facilitate his socking La Roux a firm blow with it.
La Roux takes his thrashing like a man (upon his knee – he’s standing already), folds his arms anxiously across his puny chest (in the intimidating face of Big’s astonished gaze) and says – his tone almost apologetic – ‘I trained as a medic in the South African Army.’
Army?
‘Somebody, somewhere trusted this misfit with a firearm ?’
(So I thought I was just thinking , but in the heat of the moment I find my mouth is moving and I am actually speaking .)
La Roux sticks out his chin. ‘I said I was a medic ,’ he repeats. ‘My most essential weapons – aside from my trusty pill box and my hypodermic syringe – were my natural cunning, my fierce intelligence…’ he pauses, ‘… and my cast-iron stomach, obviously.’
Feely takes this rather appropriate opportunity to deal him a further well-aimed blow, then drops the mug, sits down squarely on the cold tiles and commences a brand-new (and very lengthy) phase of uninhibited howling.
Big, clucking like a mother hen, bends over to pick him up. I turn briefly to try and wring out my soaking skirt (wool’s so appallingly absorbent, don’t you find?), and when I finally chance to glance his way again, our diabolical hero – sweet and silent as a dark Red Admiral on a soft sea breeze – has bashfully flitted.
Hell’s bells. Events are certainly progressing at a fair old whack: especially strategically . I mean, one minute things are looking rather bleak for that cheerfully conniving South African buffoon, and then, in the very next instant, his fortunes have altered course completely.
It’s like a critical scene in a TV drama where the character you couldn’t help liking the best suddenly turns out to be the self-same bastard who viciously murdered his best friend’s budgerigar. Only back to front (which would have to make him the person you like least offering a timely portion of mouth-to-beak resuscitation).
Oh, liven up , you know what I mean.
Initially it’s rather difficult to gauge the subtle shifts and slides in La Roux’s general household popularity. Patch – having been anything from lacklustre to indifferent previous to the Feely disaster – now thinks the sun shines out of this medically trained impostor’s most intimate orifice.
Big has been briefly – if not entirely convincingly – won over. Feely – now here’s the weird part – having liked La Roux from the outset, suddenly can’t bear to catch the slightest whiff of him. And me? I liked the fool before, and now I love him ever more dearly.
These feelings are – if anything – intensified by a small and ridiculous incident which occurs later that self-same evening. Having espied La Roux’s miniature guitar in his nest the day before, I suggest (with the secret aim of mollifying Feely a little) that we all get together that night, once my lengthy stint of painting is over, for a spot of musical revelry.
The whole family just loves to warble. Unfortunately we possess not a single harmonious bone
Then suddenly something rather magnificent happens. As if from nowhere (okay, it seems likely the little pervert was hiding in a cubicle all the while, but I only actually realize this after), La Roux crashes into our crazy-palpitating, terror-struck environs, catches a firm hold of Feely, slams him down onto the floor, straightens his back, grabs his shoulder, gets him to count to three, applies a monumentally well-judged amount of force (but only very briefly) to the offending region, and then click , manages to shunt that pesky bone straight back into its socket again.
The whole affair takes approximately seven seconds. In fact the drama’s all over so quickly that Feely can’t help feeling a fraction disgruntled and yanks the plastic mug off his fist just to facilitate his socking La Roux a firm blow with it.
La Roux takes his thrashing like a man (upon his knee – he’s standing already), folds his arms anxiously across his puny chest (in the intimidating face of Big’s astonished gaze) and says – his tone almost apologetic – ‘I trained as a medic in the South African Army.’
Army?
‘Somebody, somewhere trusted this misfit with a firearm ?’
(So I thought I was just thinking , but in the heat of the moment I find my mouth is moving and I am actually speaking .)
La Roux sticks out his chin. ‘I said I was a medic ,’ he repeats. ‘My most essential weapons – aside from my trusty pill box and my hypodermic syringe – were my natural cunning, my fierce intelligence…’ he pauses, ‘… and my cast-iron stomach, obviously.’
Feely takes this rather appropriate opportunity to deal him a further well-aimed blow, then drops the mug, sits down squarely on the cold tiles and commences a brand-new (and very lengthy) phase of uninhibited howling.
Big, clucking like a mother hen, bends over to pick him up. I turn briefly to try and wring out my soaking skirt (wool’s so appallingly absorbent, don’t you find?), and when I finally chance to glance his way again, our diabolical hero – sweet and silent as a dark Red Admiral on a soft sea breeze – has bashfully flitted.
Hell’s bells. Events are certainly progressing at a fair old whack: especially strategically . I mean, one minute things are looking rather bleak for that cheerfully conniving South African buffoon, and then, in the very next instant, his fortunes have altered course completely.
It’s like a critical scene in a TV drama where the character you couldn’t help liking the best suddenly turns out to be the self-same bastard who viciously murdered his best friend’s budgerigar. Only back to front (which would have to make him the person you like least offering a timely portion of mouth-to-beak resuscitation).
Oh, liven up , you know what I mean.
Initially it’s rather difficult to gauge the subtle shifts and slides in La Roux’s general household popularity. Patch – having been anything from lacklustre to indifferent previous to the Feely disaster – now thinks the sun shines out of this medically trained impostor’s most intimate orifice.
Big has been briefly – if not entirely convincingly – won over. Feely – now here’s the weird part – having liked La Roux from the outset, suddenly can’t bear to catch the slightest whiff of him. And me? I liked the fool before, and now I love him ever more dearly.
These feelings are – if anything – intensified by a small and ridiculous incident which occurs later that self-same evening. Having espied La Roux’s miniature guitar in his nest the day before, I suggest (with the secret aim of mollifying Feely a little) that we all get together that night, once my lengthy stint of painting is over, for a spot of musical revelry.
The whole family just loves to warble. Unfortunately we possess not a single harmonious bone
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