Bubblegum Smoothie by Ryan Casey Page B

more annoying was the bleeping noise that had been going on and on and on all night. I couldn’t wait to get myself out of this smelly, over-warm craphole. It was light outside now, so at least I’d be able to get away soon.
    “Never thought I’d see you in a hospital bed again after Thailand,” Martha said. She sat at the chair beside my bed looking bleary-eyed, barely any makeup on.
    “Yeah, well,” I said. “Main lesson I learned back then was never trust a Thai restaurant in a dodgy Manchester side street called ‘Thailand.’ I mean, you wouldn’t call an Italian restaurant ‘Italy,’ would you? Surely there’s some kind of—of copyright… agh.”
    Martha leaned forward as I winced, the pain in my back intensifying. “Are you okay? Do you want me to get the nurse? Do you—”
    “I’m fine, Martha,” I said, raising my hand. “I just… these beds. Absolute nightmare to sleep on. I’ve slept on more comfortable hot coals.”
    “Oh yeah,” Martha said. “Just the bed, of course. Nothing to do with you leaping out of a first floor flat in the middle of the night. Nothing to do with that.”
    “I can take a fall—argh!”
    “Evidently,” Martha said, shaking her head. “Evidently.”
    I’d told Martha about the envelope. Look Inside! And I’d told her about what was inside it, too—the finger and the explosive. But she’d been weirdly dismissive. Like the case came second to my personal well-being, or something wacky like that. Truth was, I just wanted to get out. Get out, get working on the case again, then earning my money so I could add to my Fun Funds and buy a curved TV for the…
    My stomach turned. A curved TV for what? My lounge? My exploded, fried lounge?
    “You just need to take it easy for a while,” Martha said. She slipped a piece of chewing gum in her mouth and offered me some, which I refused. “Take it easy. Relax. Stop stressing about—”
    “About my collapsing business, my destroyed flat, and—oh, the small matter of a nutcase killer wanting me in pieces. Yeah. I’ll stop stressing.”
    Martha puffed out her lips. “I’m just saying, that’s all.” She looked to her right and I noticed her sigh. “Ah, shit. We’ve got company.”
    For a split second of sheer terror, I thought she might be suggesting that the perp was in the hospital. But when I looked to the left, I realised it was much, much worse.
    Lenny was sauntering into the ward, jokey smile on his face, bag of chocolate raisins in hand.
    “Blake! My man!”
    He jabbed me in my left shoulder.
    “Ah—I knew it was the right one you hurt! I knew it was the right one. How you hanging , anyway? Clinging on in there?”
    He looked at Martha, then at me, laughing at his own shit brand of puns.
    “ Falling into a coma now you’ve arrived.”
    He howled even louder at this. Patted a hand on his blue-shirted belly. “Ah, Jesus. You do get me sometimes. Anyway, some breakfast for you.”
    He plonked the purple pack of chocolate raisins onto my belly.
    “Raisins?” I said. “Erm, thanks?”
    “Hospital tradition,” Lenny said.
    “Are they?” Martha asked. “Are they really?”
    “I think he means grapes.”
    Lenny shrugged. “Ah—grapes, raisins, wine gums. Same difference. Scoff ‘em up, you ungrateful bastard. And, um, help yourself, sir. Madame. Whatever.”
    Martha nodded, not biting at Lenny’s bait, if it even was bait and not unintentional dick-headery.
    “So, I hear our killer’s gone and found himself a bit of a mouse to catch,” Lenny said. Funnily enough, the beaming white grin hadn’t gone from his face. Just imagine if the tables were turned… I’d have plenty to smile about.
    “I got an envelope. An envelope with a finger and an IED in. An envelope with ‘Look Inside!’ written on it. I’d say I have an admirer, yeah.”
    Lenny lifted an apple out of his TARDIS pocket and crunched down on it. “Any proof?” Some of the apple juice splashed over my face.
    “Proof?” I