Read Online The Amazing Spencer Gray by Deb Fitzpatrick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deb Fitzpatrick
Tags: Fiction/General
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glued up at the thought of that, of what might lie ahead.
He put the bag down again. He didnât think he could eat.
After a moment, in that grey fear, Spencer reached for the bag again. He took out one of the water bottles. Heâd heard Dad talk about nurses doing this with really sick patients in hospital: wetting their lips, just keeping them moist. He spun the lid off the water bottle, and took a slug. He felt guilty as it went down, cold and cleanâhe guzzled almost crazilyâbut he felt better almost instantly. He hadnât realised how much heâd needed a drink.
Spencer dipped his fingers into the bottle and daubed drops of water over Dadâs lips. Dad moved his head slightly. Spencer watched as, semiconscious, he tucked his bottom lip into his mouth and sucked the water off.
âThatâs good, Dad,â Spencer murmured. âYou need to drink.â He poked his finger back into the bottle and smeared his lips again. Once more, Dad sucked thewater off. Spencer kept at it for a good ten minutes or so, until Dad seemed to have had enough and slumped back into himself.
He couldnât put it off any longer. Spencer leaned over him. The blood in Dadâs hair had congealed darkly. There was a sticky patch just to one side of his head. Gingerly, Spencer tilted Dadâs head to one side, so that heâd be looking out the window, if his eyes were open.
âWish you could enjoy the view better, Dad,â he murmured, as a balloon shape of blood floated towards him.
Spencer panicked and snatched the fleece from Dadâs chest and dropped it onto the blood to soak it up. Then he got down as low as he could so that he could see whatever he needed to see.
Carefully, he lifted Dadâs head up off the floor about a centimetre. It was actually quite heavy. Spencer felt his own pulse come to the top of his throat as he looked. A raw meaty gash yawned from the back of Dadâs head. Blood flooded into it as he watched. It was deep and messy.
He rushed: pushed the arm of the fleece over it and slightly in, to block it up as best he could. Then Spencer rearranged the jacket around Dadâs neck forcomfort and lowered his head down onto it. He pulled his hands back quickly: he couldnât wait to get away from it.
The rain got steadily harder. Every few minutes Spencer looked over to Dadâs head, to see if there was any blood seeping out under the fleece. So far, so good. Spencer knew that he had to try to stop the bleeding.
Through the window, Spencer stared at the thin long wing of the Drifter. It shoneâfar too white amid the dirty green scrub, and the grey rock that was scattered about like broken tiles wherever he looked.
After heâd wiped the sticky blood from his fingers onto his cargo pants, Spencer looked around for something he could catch some of the rain in, in case it stoppedâthough that seemed very unlikely. There were no cups. Or bowls, or pans. This wasnât meant to be a camping trip! He needed a plastic tarp or something. His eyes landed on the wet weather jacket heâd brought. That could work. He grabbed it up and twisted around in his spot to face the door. He spread the jacket out flat on the ground, bunching it up at the edges so the water wouldnât flow away. A bowl, of sorts.
He could have let himself be hypnotised by that rain,he could have just stared at it splashing and plipping and forget the stupid two-way and the mobile phone and bloody Dad lying there like a spaz.
He turned back to the stuffy, broken interior of the Drifter. He checked again: no blood.
Reg may have had their flight plan, but Spencer had been thinking about that: crashing into the side of Bluff Knoll wasnât likely to be on Dadâs itinerary. So, apart from Reg thinking that they were running a bit late, he wasnât exactly in the know, was he?
He looked at his watch. It was 3.30.
Spencer wasnât sure how much longer Dad could handle
He put the bag down again. He didnât think he could eat.
After a moment, in that grey fear, Spencer reached for the bag again. He took out one of the water bottles. Heâd heard Dad talk about nurses doing this with really sick patients in hospital: wetting their lips, just keeping them moist. He spun the lid off the water bottle, and took a slug. He felt guilty as it went down, cold and cleanâhe guzzled almost crazilyâbut he felt better almost instantly. He hadnât realised how much heâd needed a drink.
Spencer dipped his fingers into the bottle and daubed drops of water over Dadâs lips. Dad moved his head slightly. Spencer watched as, semiconscious, he tucked his bottom lip into his mouth and sucked the water off.
âThatâs good, Dad,â Spencer murmured. âYou need to drink.â He poked his finger back into the bottle and smeared his lips again. Once more, Dad sucked thewater off. Spencer kept at it for a good ten minutes or so, until Dad seemed to have had enough and slumped back into himself.
He couldnât put it off any longer. Spencer leaned over him. The blood in Dadâs hair had congealed darkly. There was a sticky patch just to one side of his head. Gingerly, Spencer tilted Dadâs head to one side, so that heâd be looking out the window, if his eyes were open.
âWish you could enjoy the view better, Dad,â he murmured, as a balloon shape of blood floated towards him.
Spencer panicked and snatched the fleece from Dadâs chest and dropped it onto the blood to soak it up. Then he got down as low as he could so that he could see whatever he needed to see.
Carefully, he lifted Dadâs head up off the floor about a centimetre. It was actually quite heavy. Spencer felt his own pulse come to the top of his throat as he looked. A raw meaty gash yawned from the back of Dadâs head. Blood flooded into it as he watched. It was deep and messy.
He rushed: pushed the arm of the fleece over it and slightly in, to block it up as best he could. Then Spencer rearranged the jacket around Dadâs neck forcomfort and lowered his head down onto it. He pulled his hands back quickly: he couldnât wait to get away from it.
The rain got steadily harder. Every few minutes Spencer looked over to Dadâs head, to see if there was any blood seeping out under the fleece. So far, so good. Spencer knew that he had to try to stop the bleeding.
Through the window, Spencer stared at the thin long wing of the Drifter. It shoneâfar too white amid the dirty green scrub, and the grey rock that was scattered about like broken tiles wherever he looked.
After heâd wiped the sticky blood from his fingers onto his cargo pants, Spencer looked around for something he could catch some of the rain in, in case it stoppedâthough that seemed very unlikely. There were no cups. Or bowls, or pans. This wasnât meant to be a camping trip! He needed a plastic tarp or something. His eyes landed on the wet weather jacket heâd brought. That could work. He grabbed it up and twisted around in his spot to face the door. He spread the jacket out flat on the ground, bunching it up at the edges so the water wouldnât flow away. A bowl, of sorts.
He could have let himself be hypnotised by that rain,he could have just stared at it splashing and plipping and forget the stupid two-way and the mobile phone and bloody Dad lying there like a spaz.
He turned back to the stuffy, broken interior of the Drifter. He checked again: no blood.
Reg may have had their flight plan, but Spencer had been thinking about that: crashing into the side of Bluff Knoll wasnât likely to be on Dadâs itinerary. So, apart from Reg thinking that they were running a bit late, he wasnât exactly in the know, was he?
He looked at his watch. It was 3.30.
Spencer wasnât sure how much longer Dad could handle
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