Box of Frogs, Page 2

  ‘Compensation,’ I said aloud. I crouched beside the first man and started rummaging through his pockets. ‘It’s only fair, after all. You did attack me entirely without provocation.’ I retrieved a wallet, bulging with crisp new bank notes, and helped myself to them. ‘I’m being generous,’ I told him. ‘I’m leaving you ten quid to get yourself a taxi or a pint of milk for when you get home.’ There weren’t any credit or bank cards but swiping anything like that was asking for trouble.

  I nodded, satisfied. Then I unbuckled his heavy, expensive-looking Rolex and slipped it into my pocket.

  The second man was equally prepared with the same wad of new notes. As I drew them out, I frowned. It looked like the same amount I’d taken from McNasty Numero Uno. Pursing my lips, I ambled over to the third man, who’d been shot by his mates. Oddly, his chest was still rising and falling. I could have sworn the bullet had hit him dead on in the heart. Not a corpse after all, then.

  ‘You’re superheroes too,’ I murmured. Then I corrected myself. ‘Make that supervillains. I wonder what manner of beastie can sustain a direct gunshot wound to the heart and still be alive?’

  I reached down for his wallet, realising at the same time that my shoulder wound no longer smarted, although my finger was still throbbing from the sword slice I’d given myself. No doubt that was what they’d meant by coating the bullets. If they had managed to do that, I didn’t think I’d still be breathing. It was helpful to discover that I had my own personal kryptonite. It made sense, I thought reasonably; no superhero was invincible.

  Shaking off my turbulent thoughts, I counted the third lot of money. Same. A shiver rippled across my damp skin. The attack wasn’t personal, then: these guys had been hired to kill me. The thought was not cheering. All it meant was that next time they’d send someone stronger. Yippee.

  By the time I was done, my pockets were straining at the seams. If I was careful, there was enough money to tide me over for some time. All I had to do now was to get as far away from here as possible.

  Parked out the front was a large Jeep, which no doubt belonged to my attackers. Figuring that it wouldn’t hurt to delay them further by taking it, I hopped inside, pleased to see that the keys in the ignition. Whoever the men were, they were certainly mucky pups; greasy burger wrappers and crisp packets littered the floor and there was a stale odour.

  I searched the glove compartment, looking for clues like a good detective. The only thing I found, however, was a flyer for a swish-looking bar called the Metropolitan. The address at the bottom indicated it was in Manchester. That was good. We had to be near the city – and a city large enough and anonymous enough for me to lose myself in.

  It was tempting to veer off into the countryside and hide for the rest of my days in a quaint little village but who ever heard of a superhero who lived on farmland? Even Clark Kent had abandoned ruralsville as soon as he’d had the chance. I ground my teeth. Gasbudlikins. It really annoyed me that I could remember that.

  As I drove, I tried to work out what else I could remember. Anything to do with myself or my own history had me drawing a big, fat blank, yet I could remember how to drive. Obviously. When I pulled onto the motorway heading into the city, I could also remember a shortcut that avoided the speed cameras. So maybe I was from Manchester? Not that I seemed to possess a Mancunian accent. Perhaps I’d been privately educated. My brain ached with the effort of trying to jolt my memory and, in the end, I gave up. Tomorrow was another day, after all.

  I abandoned the Jeep in a silent side street that was emblazoned with no-parking warnings but appeared to be bereft of security cameras. Then I walked, winding my way through narrow streets until I’d allowed enough distance between myself and the vehicle to be safe.

  Before too long, I came across the welcome lights of a Travotel and presented myself under the highly imaginative name of Joan Smith to a weary-looking desk clerk, who helpfully gave me the keys to a small ground floor room without asking for ID. I mentally patted myself on the back for my forethought at getting this room – I needed to be able to exit from the window if any more wrinkled, bald goons came after me.

  Then I collapsed onto the bed fully clothed and fell into a blissful sleep.

  ***

  It was odd that, when I woke up on the bed some hours later, I was considerably more disorientated than I had been when I found myself concussed on a golf course next to a dismembered corpse. I could only assume that I’d been suffering from shock at the time, which was why I’d managed to treat last night with such calm. Now, the fog of confusion that lit through me when I opened my eyes to the blank Travotel ceiling set my heart hammering against my ribcage.

  Taking short, shallow breaths, I gave my cheeks a few slaps. The clock on the bedside table indicated it was already gone noon. Perhaps I just wasn’t a morning person. I reached for the remote and turned on the television, irritably skipping past the hotel’s welcome channel to find the news. North Korea was threatening military action against the south; there were delays on the M5 because of an overturned lorry; VAT was set to increase. There was nothing about a grisly death on a golf course. Even the local news made no mention of it. That was … interesting. Equally, there were no reports of any missing women. Maybe no one had noticed I’d gone.

  I lifted up my blouse and examined my ribs. As painful as they’d felt last night, there was no longer any signs that I’d been so much as slightly bruised. I prodded the skin but there was no flare of agony. My finger where I’d sliced myself on the headless corpse’s damn sword was a different matter; it still throbbed and the small wound was looking distinctly green. I supposed it was entirely possibly to get gangrene in your finger. Why wouldn’t it be?

  Pursing my lips, I headed into the small, windowless bathroom, flicking on the light and catching sight of my reflection for the first time. Green eyes, the afore-noted boring brown hair and, if I did say so myself, a cute upturned button nose with a sprinkling of freckles. I assessed myself as a decent eight out of ten on the attractiveness-ometer, in my late twenties, with clear, healthy-looking skin. I opened my mouth and examined my teeth. Satisfyingly straight, white and even. There was a glint of something towards the back of my mouth. Craning my neck into a most undignified position, I decided it was a gold filling. Well, I shrugged, it could be worse. At least I didn't have braces.

  I turned on the tap and let the cold water run over my small wound. It still hurt. I’d have to search for a pharmacy and get hold of some antiseptic when I made it out of here.

  Abandoning my finger for the time being, I smiled at myself. ‘I am the Madhatter.’ I coughed and deepened my voice. ‘I am the Madhatter and you have met your match, for I have powers you can only dream of.’

  It occurred to me, not for the first time, that perhaps I didn’t just have amnesia. If my superhero nomenclature really was the Madhatter then it was possible I was completely insane as well as terminally forgetful. Had I imagined my crazy feat with those bullets? I bit my lip. There was only one way to find out.

  I unwrapped the miniscule complimentary soap and gave my face and armpits a quick wash before straightening my clothes and heading out. I passed several other hotel guests along the way and, although I stared hard at each one in case I happened to know them – or vice-versa – all I gained in return were a few scowls and confused looks.

  As I tripped through the small lobby, which smelled unpleasantly of bleach, I paused to grab a local newspaper. September 22nd, 2018. There was nothing about the date that jarred. Given all I had to go on were my instincts, I filed it away in my mind then flipped quickly through the pages in case there was a missing person’s advert placed by my distraught family, or an article with my face in it. Again I was disappointed. I grimaced and tossed the newspaper aside.

  Cool air hit my face as soon as I left the hotel building and I couldn’t stop myself from shivering. I was going to have to use some of my newfound wealth to buy some clothes. I stepped off the pavement to cross the road �
� then halted abruptly as a familiar smell tickled my nostrils.

  Turning my head, I spotted an older woman leaning against a wall and inhaling deeply on a cigarette. As she blew out smoke it drifted in my direction, causing both my fingers and my insides to twitch. Huh. I raised up my own hands, sniffed my fingers and examined them for the tell-tale yellow of a smoker. Oh. I felt oddly disappointed in myself. Then again, it had to be stressful work being a superhero. I bit down the temptation to ask the woman for a cigarette and turned away. I had other things to do.

  The main shopping streets were busy with the late lunch crowds. I weaved my way in and out of them. What I was looking for was unlikely to be here; I needed somewhere far murkier than The White Company or Jo Malone. Spinning away, I marched down a side alley. Hunched in a doorway was a homeless guy with a sad-looking cap containing a few coins sitting in front of him.

  I crouched down next to him. ‘Hey,’ I said softly. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Fucking fantastic. How does it look like it’s going?’

  No wonder he wasn’t having much luck with the coinage. All the same, I offered him a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m new to town,’ I told him.

  ‘Bully for you. Tourist Information Office is in the other direction.’

  I dug into my pocket and pulled out one of McNasty’s fifty-pound notes. The homeless guy’s eyes flickered but he didn’t reach for it. ‘I bet you know this area well,’ I said. ‘Better than Tourist Information does.’

  There was the faintest sneer to his response. ‘If you’re looking for something to snort, I’m not your man.’

  ‘I don’t want drugs. I just want to know what areas I should avoid. I get … nervous in new places.’

  He gave me such a sceptical look that you’d think I’d told him he’d just won the lottery. ‘You think I don’t know who you are?’

  I froze. ‘Who?’ I demanded. ‘Who am I?’ When he didn’t answer immediately, I whipped up, hauling him with me. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Your lot don’t scare me,’ he mumbled. ‘Threaten me all you like. Cut off my toes. Won’t make any difference.’

  ‘What is my name?’ I hissed, getting right in his face.

  ‘I dunno. How the fuck should I know?’

  ‘You said you knew who I was!’

  ‘I know you’re one of them. I don’t know your bloody name.’

  I gritted my teeth. ‘One of who?’

  ‘You know. Them.’

  Superheroes. He knew I was a superhero and he knew there were others. I released my grip on his collar. ‘How?’ I breathed. ‘How do you know what I am?’

  He raised a grubby shoulder. ‘Just do. I see things, don’t I? You’d be surprised what I see.’

  My pulse rate had picked up. Trying to breathe normally, I opened my mouth to ask him more when he snatched the fifty-pound note from my hand and spun round, kicking his cap with the paltry pile of coins to one side and pelting down the street away from me. From a brief moment I gazed after him like a flabby, half-baked sponge then I took off after him. No way was I letting him go until I knew everything he knew.

  He might have had a head start but I was fast. Damned fast. Olympian-sprinter level fast, in fact. I might have been a smoker but the effort I had to put into running after him barely affected me. I leapt neatly over three rubbish bags, using the wall on my left to gain further traction and, within seconds, I was at his back. I reached out to grab him but, before my fingers even brushed against his clothes, he let out a yell. Arms outstretched, he went flying down to the ground.

  I came to a skidding halt and narrowly avoided tripping over his prone body. Glancing backwards, I realised what had happened. There was a pothole in the middle of the road, about a metre or so back and his foot must have caught in it. Shame that the hole had beaten me to it; I’d been rather impressed at how quickly I’d caught up to him.

  I crouched down and prodded him with a finger. He didn’t move; in fact, he didn’t even groan or moan or sigh in vexation. Frowning, I turned him over. Gasbudlikins. He was out cold. Not only that, but there was a nasty gash on the side of his head where he must have struck the edge of the pavement as he went down. The copious amounts of blood streaming from the wound probably weren’t a good thing.

  Cursing to myself, I doubled back to accost the nearest passerby for their mobile phone so I could call an ambulance. With that accomplished, I went back to wait with him until the paramedics arrived, pouting the entire time. This simply wasn’t fair.

  Chapter Three

  I tried my level best to accompany the homeless guy to hospital but the paramedics were having none of it. They shooed me away before taking off with lights blazing and sirens blaring. I glared after the ambulance, as if dirty looks might encourage it to return, before I eventually stomped off to see if Mr Clumsy had any friends who might also know about ‘my lot’. Unfortunately, even though I came across several more homeless men and women, none of them seemed to possess his vital knowledge. On the plus side, they were a darned sight friendlier than he had been, pointing out which streets I would do well to avoid as a solitary, weak female.

  I offered my thanks in the form of the Queen’s head and then made a beeline directly for the supposed danger zones. It was still only afternoon but I was hoping that I could make myself look like a target tempting enough for someone to attack. That way, even if I accomplished nothing else, I’d have an opportunity to see what else I was capable of. It wasn’t a great plan – but it was a plan.

  The supposedly dangerous streets weren’t quite as seedy as I’d hoped for. Sure, there were some boarded-up windows and the odd dodgy-looking character wandering past with a shifty glint in their eye, but I walked up and down for the better part of an hour and not a single soul tried to mug me. I didn’t even get a creepy catcall from the builders who were bricklaying round an old, decrepit cemetery. The more time passed, the more frustrated I became. Clearly patience wasn’t my strong suit.

  An elderly man, hunched over a gnarled walking stick, paused at the traffic lights not too far from me. I raced over, more than ready to offer my services to help him get across. After all, being heroic didn’t just mean grand, life-saving gestures. He didn’t so much as glance as at me when I reached him.

  He started ambling across the road in a lopsided shuffle. ‘Here,’ I said, darting round to his side and offering my arm. ‘I’ll help.’

  He raised his head with ponderous slowness and gave me a slitted glare. ‘Piss off.’

  Somewhat taken aback, I blinked at him. ‘There’s no shame in accepting help when you need it.’

  ‘Well,’ he snapped, ‘I don’t need help. There’s no shame in ignoring plonkers like you, either.’

  Deflated, I stepped away. He continued his shuffle, eventually reaching the other side of the road. He half-turned, realised I was still watching him and raised his middle finger in my direction. I huffed. Cantankerous old arsebadger.

  Abandoning him to his fate, I headed to my right. There was a sex shop down this road and enough litter to create a small bonfire. While I waited for someone who wanted my help to appear, I started scooping up the crisp packets and discarded bottles, throwing them into an empty plastic bag I’d spotted curled round a lamppost.

  The bag was almost full when I heard a small, plaintive meow. I brightened immediately and scanned up and down the street. I was just as willing to come to the aid of animals as humans.

  The cat was on top of a roof nearby and peering down at me. It meowed some more, baleful yellow eyes fixed on me. Its fur was sleek and looked clean; all the same, it was obviously stuck and needed rescuing. I regarded it thoughtfully for a moment, trying to work out the best approach. Maybe one of my super powers was flight. I grinned. That would be fun.

  Punching the air with one hand, I jumped upwards, willing myself to soar towards the cat. All that happened was that I fell down and jarred my knee. I braced my hand against the cold pavement to stop myself falling flat on my face and felt a
shot of pain through my finger again. Ouchy.

  Brushing myself off, I stood up. The cat gazed down at me and meowed once more. ‘Don’t worry, kitty,’ I called. ‘I might not be able to fly but I’m not defeated. I will rescue you, I promise.’

  I backed up a foot. Handily, there was a red postbox right in front of the house. I clambered on top of it, swaying dangerously before I caught my balance. It was about two metres’ leap from here to the edge of the roof. That was do-able, I decided, because even if I didn’t have the power of flight I was still the mighty Madhatter.

  Sucking air into my lungs, I braced myself for the jump. One. Two. Three. I threw myself forward, arms outstretched, but even with my best effort I only just managed to grab hold of the edge of the roof with one hand. I hung there for a moment, dangling uselessly. Then with a burst of strength and energy, I flung my other hand upwards and grabbed on so I could pull myself up. At least, that was the theory anyway; no matter how hard I tried, I didn’t have the strength to yank myself up. Well, that sucked.

  ‘Whatcha doing?’

  I almost lost my grip entirely when I heard the voice. From somewhere underneath me and to my right, a small towheaded child was looking up at me with a fixed, curious expression.

  ‘Cat rescue,’ I muttered, trying to swing my left leg upwards in a pathetic bid to hook it over the edge of the roof.

  ‘What cat?’

  ‘The…’ I began, before I was interrupted.

  ‘D’ya mean this cat?’

  I looked at the ground again and realised that the damned feline had already jumped down of its own accord. It sat next to the boy, blithely unconcerned, with the same vaguely curious expression on its face as he had.

  ‘Gasbudlikins!’ I exploded, dropping down to the pavement and spinning round. The cat meowed one final time and took off, sauntering down the road away from both of us.