Chapter Eight: Cabin Fever

Dorothea was half-sitting, half-lying on her bed. It was quite difficult to read a book and dial a number on her cellphone at the same time as she was flicking channels on one of the Fowls' really big screen TVs, but she managed. Even though her arm was in a sling.

Bring, bring

Bring, bring

It was about 11p.m. Ireland time, so that would be, uh, not 11p.m. New Zealand time, Dorothea figured. Pick up, Bethy! Pick up the phone before I lose my mind completely!

Click "'lo? Oo is't? 'M brshng m' teef!"

"Hey-lo, Brushing My Teeth, c'n I talk to Bethy? I need her to help me find my mind."

"Urh, j'st a sec. . . BEFFY!" As usually happens when a telephone is changing hands in the middle of a conversation there were a few clonks, zizzing sounds, a muffled yell and a disturbing silence.

"Hello?"

"Bethy! You'll never guess what happened! Guess what happened!"

"What, you got a boyfriend? Wait, this is you we're talking about, isn't it Dorothea? So, what happened, you get mugged by a leprechaun or something?"

"Close! I got shot!" There was a very, very long pause.

"You. . .You. . .Dots, that's not something to joke about!"

"Yeah, it really bites, eh. Not zactly a warm welcome to the Emerald Island, is it? Er. . . Is it Island or Isle?"

"Dots, get a grip! You, you can't just get shot and start talking about nicknames for, for countries! You're insane!"

"We've covered that already, Bethy."

"Well, well, too bad!" Dorothea wondered why her friend sounded so panicky. Her arm was fine. Well, it was fine so long as she remembered not to think about it. "Who shot you?"

"Euh, you know this's really dumb. It was just some random, I mean, not a gangster or anything. He was just after some cash to pay off his addiction, 'parently."

"The. . .the. . . I'm GOING TO RIP HIM OPEN WITH MY TOENAILS AND PLAY HACKY WITH HIS SPLEEN! Stupid, ruddy, drug-fracked up pile of-"

"Nah, nah, not drugs, keyboards."

"What?"

"He's addicted to keyboards."

"Musical keyboards?"

"Nope. Computer keyboards. Funny ole world, isn't it?"

"I'll say. All right then, I'll rip him apart with my toenails, play hacky with his spleen and smash him over the head with a keyboard, 'cos no one messes with my mates!" Bethy was beginning to sound like a chihuahua on drugs.

"Hey, hey, psyche it down. The guy isn't going anywhere, Butler pulverized him. In a very professional and bodyguard-like way, of course."

"Butler? Hey, do you have some bodyguard that I don't know about?"

"No, no, he's Artemis's bodyguard."

"Who's she? . . . Why are you laughing?" Dorothea tried to stop the maniacal mirth bubbling up inside her. God, it was good to laugh again. Especially at something as funny as a mental image of Artemis dressed up as a girl.

"Eheheheheheh… H-he's a guy, B-b-bethy. Snnhhahahahahahahahaha…"

"A guy!!! Ooh, a guy!!!" Dorothea blanched. Not that voice. . .

"Maria-Susannah. . . Why are you in this conversation? This is my conversation." Bethy sounded shocked, too, so it hadn't been her idea. Of course it hadn't, Bethy wasn't as evil as that. She knew about Dorothea's sister. She wouldn't. . .

"Like, soooo Dorry, who's the guy? Is he, like, hot?"

Dorothea ground her teeth as her sister's highly-pitched voice needled into her brain. Owwww…..

"So, hello? Dor-ry, what's he like? Do you know his, like, email address?"

"No."

"Was that, like, no he's not hot, or no, you don't know his email address?"

Ye gods, thought Dorothea. She's learnt how to speak in italics. "Um. . ." Artemis was mean, sure, but no one, not even Hitler, deserved Maria-Susannah. Well, maybe Hitler. She could've Eeeeeeeee!-ed him to death before he'd got into power. Evil Hitler. If he was alive now, she would sic Bethy on him. Spleen-hacky!

"Uhh… Maria, how did you get on here?" Disturbing visions of Maria snooping in on all her phone calls forevermore loomed up in Dorothea's mind. She would have to resort to using messenger seagulls for private talks. . .

"Oh, well, duh, I asked your friend!" What friend? Spleen-hacky! "You know, that guy you keep emailing. He, like, linked me onto Bethy's phone line!"

"Isn't that illegal?" Thank you, Bethy, thought Dorothea.

"Uhh… illegal!? Oh my god!! Dorry, you, like, shouldn't be emailing people who break the law!" Conveniently forgetting that she had wheedled Dorothea's e-friend into doing so in the first place, Maria-Susannah's voice squeaked up another octave. "Dorry-! That's. . . that's. . . So, is this guy hot, or what?"

Dorothea groaned. Over the telephone, it sounded like a dying elephant. "He's creepy. Like. . ." she tried to think of an example her sister could comprehend. "Creepy like when Mr Levade asked you where you bought your hot pink mascara, except all the time. And without the mascara."

"Ewwww! And pink is, like, totally not Mr L's colour. That was gu-ross." Well, maybe not a perfect example. "He-ey, you mean this guy wears make-up too?"

Right, bad example. And seriously disturbing mental images. "No! He's, uh, all smart and evil and pale and mean and he looks at people like they're things. Not people. You know, like they're characters in a, a movie or a book or something where you can just laugh if they get hacked into bits by madmen with machetes because you know it's not real. Type of thing. Like a miniature evil lawyer."

There was a shocked silence from the other ends of the line.

"Oh. . .that's freaky. Ew. Geez, I'm glad I'm not there."

"So, you're saying he's like us when we were watching Final Destination?"

"Yep."

"Euuuuuurghk. Hey- wait a mo'- oh, sheesh. Sorry, Dot, Matt wants to talk to your sister. Ring you tomorrow, OK?"

"See ya." Dorothea winced and turned the phone off as her sister's voice reached a pitch almost too high to be heard by human ears. "OH MY GOD! MATT WANTS TO TALK TO ME! IS MY HAIR OK? EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Well, that was all fine and dandy. Apart from the bit where Dorothea's arm was in a sling. And that she couldn't get to sleep and had to watch some random telling her to buy a home exercise machine that would make her look like a steroid-pumping weightlifter in 30 days, guaranteed, steroids not included. Bodybuilders were gross.

Dorothea twiddled her thumbs. It was not much of an improvement on TV, but at least it was active. Sort of. Well, no. ew, maybe if she did it too long her thumb muscles would bulge up like a bodybuilder's biceps. She stopped.

What a boring life. Why couldn't something happen to her?

Well, something apart from being shot. That wasn't exciting, it was messy and annoying. And she'd fainted. How shameful.

Dorothea lay back and counted sheep with scary eyes until she fell asleep.

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Note: Hah! A long chapter!