Truth Dare Kill by Gordon Ferris Page B

more than that, but given what I had until yesterday, this was a step up. Was the other bloke still around somewhere?
    “Fine by me.” Was it? At least she hadn’t closed out other options.
    She brightened. “I just want to come and go. As I fancy. Is that all right?”
    Shades of Sandra again? Well, I’d learnt; I wasn’t going to get jealous this time. I’d take Val for what she was and what she offered. Friendship and sausages.
    “Help yourself, Val.” Then something struck me. “Look, if we’re going to be pals, you’d better know a wee bit more about this.” I indicated the scar.
    “Does it hurt?” She reached out. I let her. Her finger was like a mother’s touch.
    “Not the scar. Underneath. I was in France. Got caught. They gave me a right belting. The doctors here found a bit of my skull was pushing against the brain.
    I can’t remember much since May ’44, and I still have blackouts. I can feel one beginning now. Starts with a headache, then the vision goes
    it’s a bit like a migraine, only worse. So don’t be scared if you pop in and find me, you know, lying down
    ”
    She was nodding in sympathy. I could see the curve of her breast every time her arm moved. I felt something well up in me. Not sex. Deeper than that. I had to blink and rub my eyes. A woman’s finger had more power than Wilson’s fist.
    “Next time, when I come again, you can tell me all about it. You’re tired. Have a sleep.”
    I lay back as I was told. I was wrong about the pain; it wasn’t going away. I felt the now familiar slide begin. The pressure behind my eyes was building up like water trapped in a hose. I wanted to be sick but knew I wouldn’t. That would come when I woke. The panic rose in me as I began to lose all control. I couldn’t stop myself falling over the edge. Vertigo overwhelmed me.
    I woke a long while later, alone on the bed, and cold, even though I was wrapped in the quilt. It was daylight. I was in my pyjamas. The fire was out and had been cleared up. New kindling and rolled up newspapers sat under fragments of half-burned briquettes, ready to be lit. Just the way I liked. My head felt like it had been ripped open above my temple. I made it to the sink before I threw up. I felt helpless, like a rag doll, hanging over the bowl.
    Slowly I dragged myself back up out of the hole. I looked round. Two plates washed and neatly stacked on the draining board alongside two mugs. How had I got into my pyjamas? That must have been a treat for her. I had a pal. Which was all the relationship I could handle at the moment.
    I walked over to the bed and sat down, before my legs gave way. I slumped over into my hands waiting for the kettle to boil. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was light outside and the clock read 11.30. I assumed it was the morning of the second of January, but I’ve been known to miss a complete twenty-four hours.
    On the bedside table was the notebook I kept during my episodes. Sometimes I write in it, trying to talk to my future self, my “normal” self, to give me some clues about what I’d been doing and saying and thinking during my fugue – as Doc Thompson would say. It was always a bad moment. I picked up the notebook – a school jotter – and found my pencil wedged at a point half way in. A new entry.
    The kettle whistled and I levered myself up and over to make the tea. I didn’t want to look at what my alter ego had written.
    I slunged some cold water on my face, dried it and took a sip of my tea. I felt life slowly creep into my bones. I settled back on my bed and opened the jotter.

SIX
    The writing was big and jagged, like a child’s. It was new all right. I’d carved out 1 Jan at the top, like a kid leaving his initials on a tree trunk. But my eyes were pulled past my own scribbles to an uneven line of capital letters at the foot of the page. I could see her with clenched fist and jutting tongue.
    DON’T WORRY, DANNY. EVERYTHING WILL BE ALL RIGHT. YOU’RE A GOOD MAN. YOU MUST
    BELIEVE THAT. NO