14. LONDON
I’m a mole in a hole.
I’m a fox in a box.
I’m a bunny in a…run-ny?
I’m a jester who’s been…sequestered? I’m a jester who’s been…digested?
There it is. Boom, goes the dynamite.
This building has eaten me whole. I’m poor Jonah.
Jonah with mega-burning hips. Time to relax. I unhook my legs from behind my neck and roll myself flat once more. Nan always said boredom was a state of mind. And my mind doesn’t like it, let me tell you.
Boredom, that is.
So, what’s next?
Back to the upside down.
The Guinness World Record for the longest held single-arm handstand is one minute and forty-eight seconds. I’ve already got it beat, but haven’t made it to two minutes yet.
Le sigh.
My favorite possession in the whole world is my Guinness World Records book. It’s the thing I miss most about home. Apart from Nan.
One day I’m going to get the Guinness judges to witness all my record beating in one grand reveal that makes their monocles pop. A showstopper, but only if I up my game.
Some really stellar performances which will get people talking.
Like the ‘Most electric fan blades stopped by a tongue in one minute’ record (thirty-two). That’s a crowd pleaser, but not on my list.
For one thing, you have to have an electric fan to practice on, which is not a thing I have in my current abode.
And secondly, since my tongue has been my main source of income for the last few years, I’m a little nervous about beating the poor little fella up.
My old ladies wouldn’t like that.
Though honestly, if I could make money which didn’t involve eating old lady pussy (then robbing them blind) I’d be OK with that.
Seventy-three Mississippis, seventy-four Mississippis.
At one hundred and sixteen Mississippis my shoulder gives out. Cockwomble. I collapse on the cell floor.
Is it lunchtime?
I hope Higgins brings it, he’s my favorite.
But a little voice tells me I’m still in his bad books.
Think before you act, that’s another thing Nan would say, as well as “you’re the devil’s spawn” and “what did I do in life to deserve this fate.”
But in this case, it’s Higgins’ fault, he shouldn’t have tempted me with Peter Pointer. And anyway, he still has three other fingers and Tommy Thumb to keep his palm company.
The guards, annoyingly, didn’t let me keep Peter. I was going to polish the knuckle into the perfect pendant for the girl of my dreams.
Kitten.
Wump—ppp.
My favorite melody.
Wump—ppp.
The bumpy heart-thing is now the soundtrack of my life. It all started when I stared through a bus window and saw a little kitty cat staring back.
I wasn’t going to allow anyone to tie her in a sack and drop her in the Thames. Not on your nelly.
Wump—ppp.
I hear it in my heart, not my ears. I feel her vibration.
Wump—ppp.
Wait. Something’s wrong.
WHOOSH.
The air.
The shadows.
MY BELLY.
Something is very very wrong.
I stomp across to the door and bang my fists. “NOOOO!” I scream until my throat tastes like a handful of rusty nails.
Far away, past the stone and the pipes and the men who smell like sour milk, something is breaking. It’s a tiny sound—the snap of a dry twig—but in my head, it sounds as loud as a lorry when you’re sleeping under a bridge.
Let me out. I have to get to it. Save it.
Wump—ppp.
Kitten.
I start crying so hard that I expect I’ll soon drown. But if that little bumpy heart-thing doesn’t live, what’s the point of my existence.
Wump—ppp.
Time passes. Finally, when I’m almost knee deep in a sea of my tears, the panic stops.
That was a close one.
I need to get out of this hole. No more mole.
No more chomping fingers.
I have to behave. I’ll be the most well-behaved lunatic this prison has ever seen.
I make the vow to the floor tiles, then settle down, lying on my back.
The lullaby of her heart will sing me back to sleep.
This Jack has to stay in the box, but not for much longer.