Double by Jenny Valentine Page A

gunshot—caustic, sarcastic.
    “I don’t,” I said. “I don’t want to.”
    “That’s not really working for me,” he said.
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    “What for?” he said. “For which bit of it?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “If I’m not back in three hours,” he said, “take this stuff and use it. Hide it. Keep it safe. I’m dead.”
    He was quoting me. He was quoting Cassiel. It took a second for me to work that out.
    “What?” I said.
    “Forget it,” he said.
    “Hold on,” I said. “Go back.” But he wouldn’t.
    “And now, I bump into you, taking a stroll like nothing’s happened, and you say you don’t want to talk about it?”
    Floyd put his hand on my chest, put his face right up to mine. His eyes were black with fury. “What’s going on?” he said.
    “What? Wait a minute,” I said.
    I went over what he’d said. I tried to listen to it again in my head, but Floyd was still talking. He was shouting at me.
    “Are you going to pretend I’m not here? Is that how it’s going to be? Is it going to be like that again?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Do you know anything?” he said. “Are you going to say anything that counts?”
    I started shaking. I could feel this tremor move through me, and I couldn’t make it stop. It had nothing to do with willpower, nothing do with what I thought. It was my body rebelling against my mind. It was me cracking up. That’s what it felt like. I shook, and I looked at Floyd to see if he’d notice.
    “Are you okay?” he said.
    “Not really.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “I have no idea,” I said. “I really don’t.”
    “Shit, Cassiel. Are you still in trouble?”
    I nodded. More than you could know, I thought.
    “What’s going on?”
    “I was thinking about running away again,” I said.
    “Very funny.”
    “I’m not joking.”
    “You’re not dead.”
    “I guess not.”
    “Well, it’s a start.” He grinned. “Never been happier to be wrong about something in my whole life.”
    “Good,” I said. “Thanks.”
    He looked at me funny. He frowned at me and looked away.
    “Where have you been?” he said.
    “Went to London.”
    “Didn’t think to let anyone know? Was I a smoke screen? Was that it?”
    “No, I don’t think so.”
    “What was I, then?”
    “I can’t tell you.”
    “I can’t give you your stuff back.”
    I didn’t ask him what stuff. I said, “Why not?”
    “I don’t have it.”
    “I’m confused,” I said.
    “You’re not alone. Is Frank at home?”
    “Yes.”
    “Jesus. How’s that been?” Floyd said.
    I shrugged.
    “Have you seen everyone? Have you seen, you know, your crowd yet?”
    I said I hadn’t. I said I’d been spending my time with my family. I said, “I’m not ready for a crowd.”
    He smiled bitterly. “Not like you.”
    “Maybe it is now,” I said.
    He laughed. He thought that was funny.
    “Floyd,” I said.
    “Yes?”
    “Tell me what happened.”
    “You know more than I do.”
    “Just tell me your side,” I said. “I want to hear it.”
    “You forgotten it?” He laughed. He started backing away, like suddenly he had to go.
    “Yeah. Something like that,” I said.
    “Firework night,” he said. “Remember? Crowds and rockets and a bonfire and a big Wicker Man and you, making up all sorts of crap about being in danger, and then disappearing. Ring any bells?”
    I said, “I just want to hear it from your side.”
    He looked at his watch. “Okay, if you want,” he said. “I’ll meet you. Let me just go and do what I need to do, and I’ll meet you.”
    “Where?”
    “Clock tower.”
    I’d have to find it.
    “You’d better be there,” he said. “This better not be some weird dream or those mushrooms. Did I take those? You’d better not be them.”
    “Floyd,” I said.
    “What?”
    “I’m not mushrooms.”
    “No,” he said. “You’re much worse.”
    “It’s good to see you too,” I said.
    He grinned, walked backward a little more, saluted me,