It’s a bleeding thumb, Agatha Fenton! Don’t you understand anything? She understands nothing, but she is still plying me with cigarettes in the odd hope I’ll sign my autograph. I take the pen and I grapple with it. I get blood from my thumb all over the pen. I take a close look at the pen. It’s a mess. A stick of dripping red wax melting all over the thing she wants me to sign. Which, now I look at it, is a man. A middle-aged man. A small man. His name is Oscar Hertz. He smells of tapioca. He’s forty-seven years old, according to the problems in his eyebrows. I lower the pen to his forehead. I get ready to sign my name all over it. But the pen dribbles blood all over Oscar Hertz’s forehead. I begin to wave the pen like a wand, until I have dribbled my name in blood on his forehead. I smile and say ‘there you go,’and Agatha Fenton just goes crazy with rage. She starts producing electric hammers from all the pockets of her six-foot tall body trumpet. I dodge them, bat a few back in her direction with the bleeding pen. Oscar Hertz laughs and claps his hands. And I run. I run for an hour until I get to the famous church lift. A whole entire church which goes to the fortieth floor, my penthouse apartment. A huge party hosted by my uncle Steve is all I have left in the whole world. It’s two years old, but it’s a nice place to hide. In twelve minutes I’ll probably go and have an hour long bath and get rid of all the thumb blood from my body. If the whole world doesn’t just bloody end, I mean.

Advertisements