Think Yourself Lucky by Ramsey Campbell Page B

tries to shift the scooter. The wheels judder and the motor screeches, but that's the end of the response. "Careful," I advise him. "You don't want to be even more of a wreck, do you? Think of all the people you've still got to try to run down."
    His blotchy brows squeeze out a few more drops, but I don't think that's panic—more likely the effort of making himself say "I didn't hurt you, did I? I'm sorry if I did."
    "Just me."
    "You or anyone," he says, but he's had enough of pretending to be penitent; Father Godsdrone wouldn't think much of him. "We've got rights too, you know."
    "Which rights are those, now?"
    "The right to use the street just like anybody else for a start."
    "But that isn't how you use it, is it? More like a racetrack. As I said, you've crossed the line."
    "I'll tell you what right we've got. The right to be alive."
    "Just like me, were you about to say? You'd be in for a shock."
    He doesn't quite meet my eyes. Maybe he's trying not to grasp my words as well. "Will you stand out of my way, please," he says as if he fancies he can leave me no choice. "I want to get going."
    "Don't worry, soon you'll be gone. There, I've stood. I'll bet you're wishing you were able to."
    I've moved back a step, and he struggles to send the scooter forward. The motor screams in protest, and shredded scraps of sodden newspaper fly away from the drain as the grid rattles in its socket, but the scooter doesn't budge. His brows bulge and stream with sweat as he throws all his weight against the right arm of the chair, away from the trapped wheel, and the motor shrieks on his behalf. At last its frustration whimpers into silence while his eyes and his forehead compete at glistening. "What a pain," I say as if I've found some sympathy within me. "Can't trust gadgets. Always best to rely on yourself."
    He's glancing about desperately, but there's no help in sight. "It's a pity your friend Twitch isn't here to take charge," I say. "He'd bring some big men to sort you out. That's what walkie-talkies are for. Not many walkies for you, are there? Too many talkies, though."
    I've amused myself enough. I'm furious to think I may sound childish, not that his opinion of me or anybody else's matters. "Would you like me to help you on your way?"
    "You better had. You got me into this position."
    Maybe he's so determined not to feel dependent that he greets any offers of help this way. "Stay there," I say and take my grin behind him. "Wait till I get a grip."
    I enjoy a few moments of staring at the thick mottled stump of his neck. I can imagine how fingers would sink into it, like squeezing rotten rubber. His large suffused ears look firmer, and I seize them with both hands and drag them away from his head. "Come on, make an effort," I yell in the right one. "Don't leave it all to me."
    The shock convulses his body and rocks the scooter so hard that the wheel springs out of the grid. As he clutches the arms of the chair he starts the motor, intentionally or otherwise, and the scooter surges forward. "Give me a ride," I shout and perch behind him on a ledge above the axle. "That's the least you can do when I'm getting you on the road."
    I don't know how much he hears, because I've dug a fingernail into the hole in each ear. The depths feel clogged, as if his body has exuded samples of its blubber. The poking of my nails seems to madden him, driving him to put on speed in the wild hope of somehow leaving me behind. "Look what he's doing to me," he wails at the top of his voice. "Look, somebody. Stop him."
    I could think of putting together a collection of exit lines, except are any of them worth preserving? I don't know whether I'm delighted or disgusted to find how easily manipulated Sitdown is. By thrusting my fingernail into his left ear I make him steer right in a frenzied bid to dodge the sensation. This sends him along a deserted alley towards a street with a promising amount of traffic. "I told you I'd get you on the road," I say. "They