Think Yourself Lucky by Ramsey Campbell Page A

flap a handbill at him. "The only one."
    "That's you, is it? What you call luck can only come from God."
    "He's cornered all the markets, has he? You'll be telling me next he sees everything we do."
    "That is the simple truth, my son."
    "I'm nobody's son." As I see Pastor Fogface think he's found a way to reach me with his preaching I say "He's better than a security camera, is he? Better than computers. What else do you fancy he can do?"
    "He is the source of all creation. Accept that in your soul and—"
    "He's not the source of me, and he didn't give that liability on the scooter much luck. Aren't you lot meant to help people? Maybe you should have told him to rise from his chair and walk."
    "It is not given to us to perform miracles or interfere with God's work."
    "You won't be any good at bringing back the dead, then. Getting rid of demons, is that you?" I see he's wearying of the argument—maybe he's imagining that it's the usual kind of confrontation he has to deal with—but I won't have him walking away when he's taken up so much of my time. "Let's go somewhere there aren't so many people," I say, "and we'll have the style of discussion I like."
    "God will still be with us," he says and is matching my steps when I hear a familiar sound—a mechanical whinge. It's the sound of an electric motor. Mr Sitdown is back.
    If I've any fault it's that I'm too readily distracted, too eager to light on the most deserving candidate for my attentions. Saint Godlybore or Mr Sitdown? Whichever I don't choose I'll be able to track down later, if someone else hasn't caught my fancy by then. Sitdown scowls at me and scoots off through the crowd as if he can leave me behind, which is all the provocation I need. "On second thoughts I've had my dose of you, Godgob," I tell the evangelist. "Go and tell tales to your fidgety friend."
    I have to hand out several bills before he takes enough offence to stalk into the arcade in search of Twitch. Meanwhile Sitdown has sped to the next side street and disappeared around the corner, but I'm there in time to watch him turn left into a narrower alley at the end. Beyond the alley is a street with traffic, and he whines across the pedestrian crossing as fast as any of the cars he stopped were travelling. On the far side of the road he has to drive uphill, which doesn't slow him down, since the street is deserted. At least, he thinks it is. Even if he had mirrors on his scooter I don't know whether he would notice me behind him.
    I wonder where he thinks he's bound, but there's no point in waiting to find out. As a bend in the street cuts off the sound of traffic I move within arm's length of his ridged blubbery neck. I watch it quiver as he speeds past the back doors of restaurants and shops and the fronts of clubs that won't be open until after dark. I'm amused to think he may be driving fast and shivering because he's nervous, but it's time to give him more of a reason. "You can stop now," I try not breathe in his ear. "Race over. You're at the finish."
    The scooter lurches as soon as I lean across his shoulder. One wheel stumbles off the pavement and lodges between the slimy bars of a kerbside drain. Sitdown's forehead glistens like the drain as he struggles around on the seat, which involves such an effort that I wonder if his panic has puffed him up, clamping him between the arms. "God almighty, it's you again," he gasps. "What are you up to? Soft in the head or what?"
    "You recognised me, then. Just the almighty will do."
    "What do you want?" His eyes are jittering in their sockets, but there's nobody else for them to see. "Look what you've made me do," he whines.
    "Aren't you capable of doing anything by yourself? Not much use at all, then. Not even worth your weight in everybody else's tax."
    I'm enjoying the sight of his contorted swollen neck, but now I move in front of him to let him look all the way into my eyes. He's barely glanced into them when he does his best to avoid them while he