It's Not You It's Me

by Allison Rushby

  ‘That’s them.’ Jas gives me a hand up. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Just do whatever they tell you to do. Without question. And right away.’

  Oh, that’ll work out swell. Generally, doing what others tell me to do without question and right away isn’t one of my fortes. I wish I’d had more practice now.

  Jas puts his backpack on and makes sure mine’s on too before we go over and stand right beside the door. He opens it a crack and I can just see out. There are two big guys out there. And I mean big guys. So big I can’t see past them to what’s going on.

  The flashes start going off again as soon as the door twitches open.

  And then, before I can even wonder how all these people got here so fast, I’m being pushed out into the corridor with Jas, the two bodyguards forming a shield around us.

  The flashes start up for real then. People begin yelling too. Yelling ‘Zamiel!’ and ‘Jasper!’—whichever will get his attention.

  There’s a grab here and there. Someone pulling on my jacket. Someone else pulling on my pants.

  I hear my name once or twice, but I don’t look.

  And it’s not fun.

  Not that I’d thought it would be, but I’ve seen people do this on TV and never really thought twice about it. No, it’s not fun at all.

  It’s just plain scary.

  The bodyguards ferry us down the hall with a lot of pushing and shoving. Finally we get to the end of the corridor. We don’t take the stairs as I thought we would. Instead a lift door opens up and we get in. It’s not the normal lift; we’re down at the wrong end of the corridor for that. It must be the service lift, I think, breathing a sigh of relief as I look around me. And I’ve never been so grateful to be somewhere so grotty, I decide as I note the padded walls and dirty floor. I’m standing on a lettuce leaf.

  Jas is right. It’s not exactly the glamorous life people think it is.

  He squeezes my hand as he talks to the two bodyguards about our plans. I can’t seem to concentrate hard enough to listen, however. My head is making this funny buzzing sound and I start to realise that I might not be feeling quite as well as I thought I was. I start praying that I’m not going to faint and that the fruit toast isn’t going to make a star appearance and end up on top of the lettuce leaf.

  ‘You all right?’ One of the bodyguards stops talking and grabs one of my arms as I sway a bit. I guess he must be Michael, as he was the one who lifted me off the ground by the seat of my pants when I stumbled upstairs. Not the most ladylike look.

  ‘Charlie?’ Jas is looking at me. ‘You’re a bit pale. You want to sit down?’

  Everyone’s looking at me now.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say, hoping that I will be.

  Jas turns to the bodyguards then. ‘She’s been sick. She’s had cancer,’ he whispers.

  I give him a punch then, suddenly forgetting that I don’t feel so hot. What does he think he’s doing? ‘Hey, I’m not deaf. And you don’t go around telling people that, you idiot!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s private, that’s why!’

  ‘Right. Sorry.’ He makes his old Bad-Jas face at me.

  ‘You damn well—’

  ‘OK, this is us,’ the other bodyguard butts in, holding the doors closed. ‘The car’s parked right out in front of the lift. You guys’ll be in the back.’

  I check the lift’s display to see what floor we’re on. We’re in the car park. The second level.

  And with that the lift doors open and we’re off again.

  There are more people down here, even though we’re in the car park. They’re surrounding the car, and the second bodyguard pushes one or two of them away so he can open the door and let us in the back seat of the black Mercedes.

  Michael puts a hand on my head and pushes me in first, then Jas, then clambers in himself. The other guy goes around and gets into the passenger seat. There’s already a third guy, a driver, in the car.

  The doors slam and lock, and almost instantly the car makes a sharp right and screeches off.

  I start to wonder if the screeching thing is really necessary, or if it’s just for show, but then remember Jas’s stab wound and think better of asking. Instead I put my seat belt on. Something tells me I’m going to need it.

  When I’ve got it safely clicked in place, I start to have a look around as we climb the car park levels. Everyone’s wearing black. The bodyguards, the driver, Jas. Not me, however. I have dressed for this experience without much thought, apparently. Instead of wearing the compulsory black, I’ve donned a fuchsia-pink top, the same old black stretch pants and, of all things, a daffodil-yellow puffy jacket that just screams ‘Hey, stab me, baby. I’m over here!’ I think of Jas’s arm and realise I may as well have a target drawn on my back, displaying each and every vital organ for easy reference.

  The car screeches as we go around another bend and I glance from one bodyguard to the other. I don’t know about them, but this is hardly my idea of incognito. I mean, if you want people to notice you, probably the best way to go about it is to wear black and dark sunglasses and speed around with two hefty guys and a driver who are wired and wearing black too, in a black Mercedes.

  I look at Jas to see if he’s enjoying this or not. He doesn’t seem to be. But he doesn’t seem worried, either. He’s leaning forward now with his arms resting on the two front seats, talking to the driver and the other bodyguard. Making plans, I think. It looks like a day at the office more than anything. He turns to me. ‘Feeling better? It’ll all be over soon.’

  Just as he says the words we screech around another corner and my stomach does a little hop sideways. ‘Sort of.’ I want to nag him to sit back and put his seat belt on, but I don’t. If he does this kind of thing all the time and has only got one scar to show for it Jas is probably invincible—he doesn’t need my help. I stop worrying about him and lean my head back against the seat so I can concentrate on not needing a sick bag. I’m doubting the three stooges have one. They don’t look like the mothering kind.

  ‘We’ll be out in just a moment,’ the driver says, and Jas sits back in his seat.

  ‘Ready to get down?’ he says to me.

  ‘What?’ I don’t think he wants to boogie.

  ‘Want your auntie Kath to see you in the paper tomorrow?’ Jas grins.

  This wakes me up. ‘No!’ Kath would be on the first flight over, the twins strapped to her back, looking forward to throttling me personally with her bare hands if she knew I was speeding around Germany in a black Mercedes with two bodyguards, a driver and a guy with a stab wound.

  Michael pulls me down onto Jas’s lap, my nose in his crotch, of all places, and I don’t protest.

  I stay down there for a minute or so, but I can still see the flashes—which makes me think people must be holding their cameras up to the car. We wait for a moment or two. For lights to change? I’m not sure, as I can’t see. And then, with another screech of the tyres, we pull out and Michael lifts me up again.

  ‘No wonder you want out,’ I say to Jas, glancing out of the window before turning back to him. ‘This job must be costing you a fortune in tyres.’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘Where are we going now?’ I try instead.

  ‘Michael’s just arranging a car and a hotel for us.’

  I look over at Michael, who’s on his mobile, but speaking German now. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then,’ Jas says, with a sparkle in his eye, ‘we’re going for a drive.’

  A drive sounds fine. It’s the sparkle in his eye I’m worried about. ‘What kind of a drive?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ He goes to lean forward again, but I pull him back this time.

  ‘Put your seat belt on,’ I say in my best mother voice.

  He laughs. ‘OK.’ And he does as he’s told, but then leans forward again anyway.

  We go around another corner and I take a deep breath, a gulp, and lean back once more to concentrate on not being sick.

  Cha
pter Twenty

  Finally, after what seems like a tyre-screeching eternity, we pull up outside some kind of a car yard.

  ‘Stay here,’ Jas says as he and the bodyguard in the front seat get out of the car.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ I salute and push the button to wind the window down. It doesn’t work. I go to open the door, but the driver tells me not to and turns the air-conditioning up instead.

  Usually I’d put up a fight, but I’m starting to feel a whole lot better now the car’s stopped moving and I think that, if I’m quiet, my stomach might toughen up and return that bit closer to normal. I pray for Jas to hurry back so we can ditch the guys in black, who are starting to freak me out. I haven’t had someone tell me the windows and doors on a car are a no-no since I was a child, and frankly I’m not enjoying their company all that much.

  Michael swivels sideways on the back seat to face me. ‘So, you had cancer?’

  Oh, great. Thanks Jas. ‘Mmmm,’ I say non-committally.

  ‘My dad’s got cancer. Prostate. Pretty nasty.’

  That’s lovely, I think. What is this? Some kind of a club? I don’t even have a prostate.

  ‘What sort did you have?’

  ‘Hodgkin’s.’

  ‘That sounds pretty bad.’

  No, I think. It was a dream. A piece of cake. I love a good dose of chemo in the morning. ‘Mmmm,’ I say again, not really wanting to continue the conversation any further, because I know from experience that if I do I’ll get all the details of his father’s prostate. It’s bad enough having cancer yourself without having to hear about everyone else’s. Especially when it concerns a prostate that isn’t even related to you.

  Jas comes back towards the car then and I open my door, grateful for his timing. He swings a key out in front of him. ‘No surprise what I’ve got,’ he says, his eyes swivelling past me to Michael.

  ‘What have you got?’ I say quickly.

  Michael chuckles.

  Uh-oh.

  I scoot across the seat and get out of the car. ‘Why is this worrying me on so many levels?’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s just Michael having a bit of fun. Bit of a running joke. And, er, before you see the car, I just want to say I’m not as crap a driver as I used to be. I took some defensive driving lessons a year or so ago.’

  ‘Well, that’s something. Hopefully they covered how not to drive off bridges.’ Jas had actually done that—written off a car by driving it off a bridge into a creek, Starsky and Hutch-style. Not a big bridge, or a river, but still…

  ‘Covered that in the first lesson,’ he says sarcastically. ‘Guess which car it is?’

  Jas swivels me around so I can see a line-up of about twenty vehicles. My eyes search around desperately for a Volvo, but there isn’t one. I don’t know if any of the others have that side impact protection thing going for them, so I pick out the safest-looking one—the one I’d be happiest to let Jas drive if I was his bodyguard. My choice is a new sedan, a standard sort of family car that looks as if it’d be happy doing quite fast speeds, but not quite as fast as the red Porsche sitting next to it.

  ‘That one?’ I try hopefully, but something is telling me it probably isn’t.

  Jas snorts. ‘I wish.’

  The rest of the cars are all sporty and reasonably similar. I close my eyes. ‘Just tell me it’s not the red Porsche.’ If there’s one thing in this life I hate, it’s men in red Porsches.

  ‘It’s not the red Porsche,’ Jas says, and I open my eyes again. He’s grinning. ‘It’s the yellow Porsche. Michael always picks the yellow Porsche.’

  I stare at it. ‘Why?’ After all, it’s kind of ‘out there’, as cars go. It’s practically neon.

  ‘Says it’ll be easier to keep an eye on me as I float downstream.’

  I’d laugh if I thought this wasn’t partially the truth. ‘Why can’t we just have a normal car?’ I mean, my retinas practically burned through when I set eyes on the thing.

  ‘That’s always my question. But, hey, look on the bright side—it matches your jacket.’

  I watch Jas in silence as he walks off to grab our backpacks. The car matches my jacket? What is that about? ‘I’m not some floozie who matches her Porsche to her jacket, you know,’ I yell.

  He just waves a hand at me from the back seat of the Mercedes and I trot over sulkily to join him.

  Jas is having a laugh with Michael when I get there. ‘I bet James Bond’s bodyguard never picks the yellow Porsche,’ he says.

  Michael guffaws when he hears this. ‘James Bond doesn’t need a bodyguard.’

  ‘Ah. Got me there.’ Jas makes a face. ‘Thanks, guys. A pleasure, as always.’ He shakes their hands.

  I smile at the three of them. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Good luck with the cancer.’ Michael points a finger at me.

  My smile tightens. ‘Yeah.’

  A few minutes later we’re sitting in the Porsche, waiting for Jas to stop stalling it so we can get going. ‘I guess they should have thrown in a course on Porsche-driving and maintenance with your recording contract,’ I say, just as he finally gets the car moving and we head out onto the street.

  ‘No talking till we get out of the city,’ Jas says. ‘I hate driving on the right.’

  I stop talking immediately, remembering the bridge and noting that my yellow outerwear, while it might resemble a life-jacket, won’t help much as a flotation device.

  ‘I was joking. About the not talking,’ he says after a while. ‘Don’t you want to know where we’re going?’

  ‘Not if it’s going to be underwater.’

  ‘I’m not that bad.’

  There’s a shocking noise as he changes gear.

  ‘Or up a telephone pole,’ I add as we veer a little too close to the side of the road.

  ‘I’m not going to take us up a telephone pole.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  That’s a relief. I look out of the window and am surprised, once again, at how low I am to the ground. At least if we hit a telephone pole the pole will probably just fall over, I think. The car, being as flat as a pancake, just couldn’t pull off a stunt like running halfway up one. ‘So, where are we going?’

  ‘We, my friend, are going to hit the castles road.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I don’t like the talk of ‘hitting’ anything very much.

  ‘A road with castles along it. Know someone who went there on their honeymoon and reckoned it was fantastic. Apparently the castles are dotted all the way along the road—just like McDonald’s.’

  ‘What a quaint description.’

  ‘Is for him.’

  ‘I won’t ask,’ I say with a sigh. It’ll be another of the black leather crowd, for sure.

  ‘You’ll love where we’re staying. I’ve seen the photos. Amazing. A proper castle. Fortress and everything.’

  I pause. ‘But can you get a Big Mac and a chocolate sundae with extra topping?’

  Jas laughs. ‘Probably. They’ve improved these places since the castles of yore, you know.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Let’s see. Central heating, indoor plumbing and indoor pools for a start…’

  ‘They didn’t have those in the thirteen-hundreds?’ I turn to Jas wide-eyed.

  ‘Plenty of boiling oil, though. You notice how you just can’t get good boiling oil these days?’

  ‘It’s a problem.’ I laugh.

  We’re out of the city soon enough, and I stop being so worried about Jas’s driving technique. The traffic on the roads isn’t heavy at all, but there are still too many cars for Jas to do whatever speed the car will let him. I start to feel something bordering on comfortable.

  And even though we’ve now finished fleeing, and I desperately want to carry on our conversation from where we were so rudely cut off an hour or two ago, I can’t help but start to nod off. There’s just something about buses and cars and—oh, anywhere really—that sends me to sleep.

  Jas wakes me
up a while later.

  ‘Charlie?’ He pats me on the shoulder.

  I sit straight up on my seat. ‘Hands on the wheel! Hands on the wheel!’

  ‘All right, all right.’

  I take a look at what Jas is pointing out then. It’s a castle. A big one. Quite a long way in the distance, but unmistakable with its high tower. I notice something else then too. The scenery. ‘It’s so green.’ And it is. So very, very green. It’s like a postcard—not something you should be seeing in real life. ‘I think I should put my dirndl back on,’ I say to Jas.

  He turns to me for a moment.

  ‘Look at the road! Look at the road!’

  He looks at the road. ‘You packed your dirndl?’

  ‘Well, no. I was joking about that.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He sounds disappointed.

  ‘What’s the matter? You didn’t get a close enough look at the wood yesterday?’

  This is supposed to be funny, but all it does is remind us both of last night. And I don’t know quite what to think about that at the moment—what it means, or where we go from here. I feel I should return to my ‘we can’t just be friends’ speech that I was going to hit Jas with after we returned from funky karaoke, but somehow that doesn’t seem right now.

  He was going to tell me something back there at the hotel, though, before we were so rudely interrupted. Something big. And I want to turn around and ask him what it was, but I know Jas—he’ll tell me when he’s ready. In his own time. So I lean my head back down against the window and try to fall asleep again, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach that I know aren’t from the schnapps episode.

  I fall asleep again quite easily. I guess I’m not exactly one of those people who stays up worrying every night. I don’t have it in me.

  The next time I wake up it’s getting dark outside. I lift my head up and peer out of my window. ‘Are we almost there?’

  ‘Not far. Next exit, I think.’

  ‘Hungry?’ When I’m not sleeping, I’m thinking about my stomach. And right now it seems to be back on track and clamouring for some food.

  ‘Very,’ Jas says as we take the exit off the freeway. ‘Restaurant’s supposed to be great.’