Half Plus Seven by Dan Tyte

ladies would there? He’s very thorough but doesn’t quite strike me as the sex offender type.’
    â€˜Na, he’s too busy tending to his desk tidy for any of that funny business,’ I said. I reached for my mug and cupped it with my hands. It was still hot. I swirled the tea inside around a couple of revolutions, lifted it to my lips and blew on it. Her red hair seemed to sway a little in the breeze. Maybe this was in my head. I drank, as ever glad of the crutch appropriate to the situation. Christy broke the silence.
    â€˜It was funny, you know.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜The joke, your joke about Pete…’
    â€˜Oh, that, it was, uh…’
    â€˜â€¦funny is what it was. I’m sorry, Bill, I’m a little bit slow on the uptake at the moment. I’ve been listening so carefully to every word … from Pete, from Miles, on the calls to the front desk … I’d almost forgotten to look for a subtext.’
    I smiled. She relaxed.
    â€˜Pretty full on, huh?’ I said.
    â€˜Yeah, you could say that. I can’t say I ever thought I’d end up in this industry, but you know, it’s certainly an eye-opener and I’m learning.’
    I nodded.
    â€˜So, what about you, Bill? How long have you been here?’
    â€˜Longer than I care to remember or realise,’ I answered.
    â€˜It can’t be that bad.’
    â€˜Which? The job or the time passing?’
    â€˜Either?’
    â€˜I wish it were neither,’ I said.
    She looked less comfortable now. I was scaring her off. ‘But it’s not so bad really,’ I said. ‘You know, once you get used to it. And hopefully these buddy sessions can help you, you know, settle in.’
    â€˜Buddy sessions?’ She laughed. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had a ‘buddy’ before.’
    â€˜Me neither,’ I said ‘Friends? Maybe. Acquaintances? Definitely. Family? Unfortunately. But never a buddy. It is a bit like organised fun, isn’t it? Like our parents are friends and they’re forcing us to play together. Christ, if Miles were my dad I think I’d poison myself.’ Her eyes glassed over at the mention of family.
    â€˜My dad’s dead,’ I blurted out.
    â€˜Mine’s as good as,’ she replied.
    We quickly changed the subject. The rest of the session was spent talking about Nirvana. Thank god for Facebook stalking.

Chapter 9
    I was running down a narrow, winding cobbled road, barefoot, scared and sweaty. I looked over my shoulder to see the progress of my aggressor; he was gaining. He, or it, was a giant, red, fleshy tomato and he looked mad. Maybe all giant red things look mad by sheer dint of their genealogy but I wasn’t taking any chances. I didn’t particularly like eating tomatoes, let alone being eaten by one. Keep going, Bill, towards the light, towards the light.
    I tripped.
    Fuck. Ouch. Fuck. Blood started to seep out of my shin. Pick yourself up, Bill. The blood had seeds in it. I put two fingers hard against the wound, to stem the tide, and lifted them to my mouth. Tomatoes. My bloodstream made up of vine-ripened sun-blushed tomatoes. I’d deal with this later. He was gaining. And he looked pissed. To the light, Bill, to the light. The sun was breaking through the end of the snaking street. I was nearly there. I looked over my shoulder. He was right on my heels now, panting, grimacing, menacing, gushing tomato juice. I ran into the light.
    Something hit me hard and wet on my right temple. A horn sounded. There were bare chests and goggled faces for as far as I could see. All throwing, all dodging, all screaming. Tomato flesh was everywhere. The gutters ran red. I sank to the cobbled floor and the juice washed over me. It tasted familiar. My body sank. Underneath the liquid, I could hear a knowing, vindictive laugh.
    The alarm went off. It was 7.01 a.m.
    It was the weekend, which meant I didn’t have to drag