BLARGHARAGHAR: Yay for posting early! Now this chapter is a bit short, and quite a lot goes down in it. I'd like to say before you read that this chapter is inspired by a part of The Mighty Book of Boosh. If you've read the book, you'll know it when you come to it.
Chapter 4
Howard was startled out of a jazz trance one late afternoon while his mother was out god-knows-where. Irritated and confused as to what had interrupted him, he stood in silence in his bedroom, turning off the record player, listening. That's when he heard a large thump in the sitting room. Panic seeped in as Howard imagined some chav, or another cockney asshole from school breaking into his house. Howard grabbed the nearest weapon he could find, his acoustic, and eased his bedroom door open. Howard could hear no other sounds from downstairs, but this did little to ease his racing thoughts. Descending the stairs, wincing at every creak, Howard looked about the front hall. Seeing nothing, he carefully inched his way to the entrance of the sitting room, and immediately dropped his guitar.
There indeed was a cockney in his home, and it was a very familiar one. The window was wide open, and on the floor lay Vince, appearing to be unconscious. Rushing to kneel by the kid's side, Howard leaned over him, calling out the boy's name. On his third shout Vince stirred slightly, opening his eyes and looking about himself in a daze. He seemed confused as to how he had ended up in Howard's house of all places, and looked to Howard as if he had the answer.
"Vince! Vince, can you hear me? It's Howard. Why are you here? What's wrong? Let's get you up off the floor, yeah?"
Howard grabbed under Vince's shoulders and began to lift him into a sitting position. He got barely halfway when Vince let out a high shriek, causing Howard to drop him, which in turn released another cry from Vince, who was screwing his eyes shut and digging his palms into the wooden floor.
"What's the matter? Vince! Tell me what's wrong!" Howard knew he was practically screeching, but couldn't seem to control the rising pitch and volume of his voice.
After a few shallow breathes, Vince looked up at Howard, who was struck down completely as the shock finally faded and the sight before him sunk in. Vince looked unimaginably tiny, laying across the floor, breathing shallowly as tears swam in his eyes. Panic was brusquely pushed aside as something else strode forward in Howard's mind. It was almost a kind of paternal instinct Howard never knew he possessed, and yet it thrummed loudly in his chest. When he spoke next, he was surprised at how steady he was able to keep his voice.
"Vince, I need you to tell me where you're hurt. Or at least point."
Vince stared up at him for a few moments, seeming as shocked as Howard at his transformation. Then, with a shaky hand he ghosted across his hips and up over his left side. Howard mentally cursed his mother and her late nights out, and vowed at that moment to get a vehicle of his own. Fortunately the local A&E was not too far away; maybe twenty minutes, Howard estimated.
Picking the child up as gently as he could, Howard cringed at every noise of pain the kid made as Howard held him close and stood up.
Ten minutes later and halfway to the hospital, Howard was attempting to walk swiftly and evenly at the same time. He didn't want to jostle Vince too much, and yet panic was creeping back in to freeze over Howard's chest as the kid seemed to get quieter and more still in his arms.
'Keep him awake!'
"Vince, tell me what happened. Who did this to you?"
Vince didn't open his eyes, but his mouth shifted, as if he were trying to find the right words. Then suddenly, he was looking Howard in the eyes, and talking in a small, tired voice.
"It was the crocodile. Bumba. He was jealous of me."
They walked in silence after that, Howard unsure of how to respond to this obvious lie, or the delusion of a dying child.
Several hours later found Howard being escorted by a nurse into Vince's room. The strange foreign surge of paternal protectiveness that had dimmed during Howard's wait hummed back to life as he beheld the sight of the small sleeping child surrounded by pillows. Everything seemed to swallow his bony form, from the hospital gown to the thin blanket pulled over him.
A broken hip and punctured left lung, as well as some bruising and rope burn along his neck. From what the doctors could gather, it looked as if someone had attacked the child, and then attempted to hang him. Horror churned in Howard's stomach as he mulled over these findings. So many questions were practically beating down the walls of his skull. He settled himself in the chair placed by Vince's bedside, and tried not to count the hours as the night aged and Howard's eyes dragged down heavier and heavier.
The first thing Howard became aware of was the sensation of someone lightly messing with his hair. Acting on instinct, he pulled slightly away, muttering a "don't touch me" as the sleep fell completely from him, leaving a crick in his neck and a sense of alert as the events of last night clattered down around him. Jerking upright, he looked over to see Vince laying in his bed, blankets bunched up in his lap, exposing his feet and bony knees. He looked up at the teenager mutely, face blank, hand retracted from Howard and lying limply at his side. Howard fumbled about mentally for something to say to dispel the silence.
"So, uh, how are you feeling, Little Man?"
'What the hell?'
Howard felt his face heat up. That's what his mother used to call him until he was about five. He'd not even thought of the old pet name in over ten years, let alone consciously use it.
Either Vince didn't hear him, or he was skillfully hiding his reaction, because his face remained impassive, not replying to Howard's question. Probably didn't hear, then. What kind of painkillers did they have the kid on, anyway?
Howard decided to start over; so, clearing his throat, he carried on in a slightly louder tone.
"How are you feeling, Vince?"
"Okay."
Well, at least it was a reply.
"Are you in any pain? Tired?"
"No. Yes."
Howard was a little worried. This couldn't be the same boy who previously talked both his ears off. The one-word replies were slightly offsetting.
"Do you want to tell me what happened? Who did this to you, Vince. Please tell me."
A deep breath, then, "I told you already. The crocodile did it. He's a film star. I was working for his director, but then the director wanted to make a new movie about me instead. Bumba didn't like that. So he killed the director and then tried to kill me."
Howard let out a long slow sigh, trying to dredge up some patience. That's the same story he fed the doctors. Howard had spent nearly an hour with a waiting room full of baffled and suspicious medical staff, attempting desperately to explain. They had yet to phone the police, but made it clear that Howard needed to get the full story from the child.
"Vince, you can tell me the truth. It's just me. It's just Howard. What happened?"
"I told you, I worked fo-"
Howard stood noisily from his chair and began pacing about the room. This anger that coursed through him was frightening, and he fought to calm down and not reach out and shake the child.
"Vince. The doctors need to know. The police will be phoned. I need to know. What. Happened." He stood now at the foot of the bed, hands clutching the bed rail, staring the child in the eyes, searching his blue irises for the answers Howard desperately needed. All he needed was a name. A description. And he would...what? A mental image played through Howard's head of himself launching from the hospital doors, racing through the streets until he spotted the culprit. This tattooed, thuggish image of a monster stood across the street from Howard, who marched gallantly forward and- oh who was he fooling? Howard had about the same muscle mass as the kid before him. He was beating the shit out of no one. But he still needed, yearned to know. He had to know.
Vince was mute once more. Seeming just as frustrated as Howard. His jaw clenched slightly, and he moved his eyes to gaze dully out the window. He was clamming up, it seemed.
Howard stood straight, raking his hand through his hair and across his mouth, feeling stubble scrape against his fingers. He wondered distantly if the hospital store sold razors. He really needed a good washing up; he felt awful. Looking around the room, Howard forced his mind back to the situation at hand. He wanted so badly to repeat the questions at Vince. What happened? Who did this to you? What happened? What happened? But he felt that he'd get the same answer in reply each and every time. He was actually impressed that Vince had kept his story so straight. He doubted the kid recalled most of last night, much less some on-the-fly fable about a celebrity croc.
Howard conceded defeat by muttering that he would be by to see Vince tomorrow, and walked from the room, leaving his red jacket behind on the chair and an unreadable expression on Vince's face. He was paying such intense attention to the tiles on the floor that he almost collided with one of the doctors from his impromptu interrogation a century or two ago. The man apologised absently, reading a chart. Howard almost stepped around him, but the doctor recognised Howard, and quickly guided him to a secluded corner with a firm hand to the shoulder.
Howard could have stamped his feet in frustration. He just wanted to go home! He was so tired of these doctors and their questions. The man adjusted his glasses, looking at Howard with the same mixed look of suspicion, sympathy, and confusion that Howard had grown accustomed to and then sick of in the past hours.
"So? Has he told you what happened? His injuries are very bizarre, especially the markings on his neck."
"No. He...he hasn't said anything to me. I don't know why." Howard sighed, feeling anger and something akin to betrayal flush through him. He wanted to march back into that little brat's room and shake the answers out of him! The doctor also huffed in exasperation, making Howard feel slightly better that he wasn't alone in this battle for clarity.
"Well, we're going to bring an officer by tomorrow to speak with him. Maybe he'll realise the weight of the situation and be honest with us then. Are you going to be visiting again? We've notified his guardians but they've not come by."
"Yeah, I'll be back tomorrow. Wait, what? Guardians?"
"Yes. Didn't you know? Says here on his files. He's one of three adopted children by a Mr and Mrs Lambert." There was the mixed look again, and Howard had to look away in embarrassment at how little he knew about his friend.
Hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere, Howard asked, "How long is he going to be here? How long until he's better?"
"Well, he'll have to be here about 2 months. He can then go home, but he'll probably need help to walk for at least another few weeks."
Howard nodded, then was urged to meet the doctors eyes as he leaned in, lowering his voice, face a mask of seriousness and something that reminded Howard of how his mother looked that time he broke his leg climbing a tree.
"I hope either the officer or you can get the truth out of him. We need to find the guy who did this quickly, because between you and me, any person who's gonna hang a seven-year-old needs to be put away for a good long time."
With that the doctor moved away and continued down the hallway, once again immersed in his clipboard. Howard watched him turn a corner, and then picked up his own pace out of the hospital's front doors and slowly down the street, the early morning air greeting him.
Stumbling through his front door, Howard's plan of climbing into bed and not seeing daylight for at least a week was botched by his mother, bounding in from the kitchen to exclaim loudly over her son.
'Oh, right. Forgot to phone her.'
"Where have you been?! I come home to find you nowhere in sight; the window wide open. I thought for sure some punks got in! I was only a few minutes away from calling the police!"
'Few minutes? She must've just gotten home an hour ago, then. Damn, seems we've both had long nights.'
"I was at the hospital, Mom. Sorry. I forgot to call." Stepping out of his shoes, Howard began slumping up the stairs slowly. Why did he feel so worn out? All he'd done was power-walk with a kid on him for a few streets. Now he felt about forty. His legs ached as he climbed the first few steps. Better make that forty-five.
"Hospital? Why, what's wrong? Are you hurt?" His mother and her questions trailed after him as he ascended.
"I'm fine. Vince is the one who's hurt. I took him to the hospital last night."
"Vince? Oh, what happened? Is he alright?"
"He'll be alright, the doctors say. I'm going back to see him tomorrow."
"Wait, where are you going? Today's a school day; it's already 11:30."
"I'm staying home today."
With that Howard shut his room door on his mother's worried gaze and collapsed onto his bed, almost instantly deep asleep.
(hehehe the Lambert thing is half joke for my friend, and half because Lambert means 'bright' while Noir, Vince's birth surname, means 'dark'. And also, when Howard's mom shouts "Where have you been" I honestly got the best mental image of Molly Weasley. HAH)
