Think Yourself Lucky Read Online Free Page B

Some of us are standing up here, which."
    He continues muttering until we arrive at Lime Street, where the trains from London terminate. He plops onto the platform and plods towards the lift. By the time the train worms its way into the dark we're alone down here. The corridor leading to the lift is tiled as white as a morgue and full of his plump footsteps, not to mention the smells in his wake. I wait for him to reach the end and thumb the button. "Get yourself down here," he exhorts the lift. "Some of us need the lav before the train comes, which."
    He's started to repeat himself before the lift settles into view beyond the midget window. As the doors crawl open I move close to him, and I'm behind him in the lift when he pushes the Up button. His moist thumbprint shrinks on the plastic as the metal cell creeps upwards. I don't know whether he can see my blurred reflection in the window of the door ahead of him, but he shakes his head as if he's trying to get rid of an unwelcome impression. His cheeks haven’t finished wobbling when he swings ponderously around and finds me at his back. He clutches his chest, and his shoulders slam against the wall so hard that the lift shakes. "Sweet Jesus," he gasps. "Where did you come from? Trying to give me a heart attack?"
    "I think you've been working on that all by yourself, Mr Meatface. And you didn't say which."
    "What are you blabbering about?" He chokes as if he's rediscovered a lump of hamburger, and then he sucks in an open-mouthed breath. "Watch out what you're doing," he protests. "You'll have us stopped if you're not careful, which."
    I've moved to stand with my back against the controls, but I haven't touched them; I'm only making sure he can't. "What would you like to talk about now? Any subjects you think you haven't done justice to?"
    "Are you mad or what, you? What are you on about justice?"
    "That doesn't even make sense, and you forgot your favourite word again. Take your time. You've got all of it that's left. Call that justice if you like."
    "I'll be calling someone all right if you keep on." His face is mottled grey and pink and red, more like his choice of food than ever. "Leave them buttons," he pants, "which."
    "You had a lot more to say for yourself on the train, I must say. But you never talked about your crisps or your hamburger."
    "Them's your problem, are they?" He's managed to regain some sense of his own rightness. "Want to mind your business, you," he says, "which. Think you're a cleaner?"
    "You could say that. Say I'm cleaning up the world."
    He doesn’t understand, or else he doesn't want to. "Well, if you've finished talking," I say, "how long do you think you can hold your breath?"
    "Long enough, which." Whatever this is supposed to mean seems to desert him, and he demands "Who says I've got to?"
    "Who else is here?" I enquire and bring the lift to a shuddering halt halfway up the shaft. "How long now?"
    "What've you done?" He flaps his floppy hands at the controls behind me, where the emergency phone is housed as well. "Get away from there," he gasps. "Get it going, which."
    "Make your mind up, Mr Meatface. How's your breathing now?"
    He gapes like a stranded fish. He looks as if he's searching for a breath before he manages to find one. "Help," he yells, "I'm in the lift. It's been stopped. Someone come and fix it, which."
    I doubt anyone can hear him. He's still using too many words, and the last ones trail off, robbed of breath. I can't stand the sight of his open mouth, especially the fat greyish tongue coated with scraps of his recent snacks. "Help," he bellows before he has summoned enough breath, and then starts to cough. This turns his face even more fiercely piebald but seems unlikely to achieve enough, and so I plant my hands over his nose and mouth.
    I have to brace my heels against the metal wall to pin him where he is. His thick lips squirm against my palm, rubbing crumbs on my skin. My other hand flattens his nose, which puts me in