Page 3 of Box of Frogs
Blood roaring in my ears, I stepped to the left and avoided them completely. While the bullets continued, whining through the night air before hitting the same tree I’d been hiding behind, I zipped towards the first man. I kicked upwards, knocking the gun out of his hands and scooping it up. I briefly considered shooting him but instead I simply smashed the butt of the gun onto the top of his head. He crumpled. The poor bastard didn’t even have time to look astonished.
The other man, the chatty one, was faster. I ran towards him and wrestled the gun from his grip just as the two bullets finally hit the tree and time returned to normal. It didn’t matter; I already had the upper hand and both of us knew it. I thrust my elbow into his stomach with all the force I could muster. He collapsed to his knees.
‘Don’t,’ he whispered. There was a faint trickling sound and the unmistakable stench of urine filled the air. I glanced down at the growing wet patch at his groin. Then I brought my hands down on top of his head.
I flicked my eyes from man to man to man. Somehow – I didn’t know how – I had slowed down time. I had taken out three men, each of whom had to be at least twice my size, not to mention being armed. Four men, if you counted the guy out by hole seventeen. They’d been trying to kill me for no apparent reason whatsoever and were dressed in dark clothes, like every stereotypical villain who ever existed. At least one of them had been afraid of me.
One obvious conclusion stared me smack-bang in the face. Any dum-dum could work it out. I grinned and stretched out my arms, feeling the first drops of rain fall onto my upturned face. Well, well, well. I wasn’t just a petite woman with bad dress sense and incredibly dodgy luck. No. I was also a superhero with super powers. I even had a superhero name, derivative as it might be. I was the Madhatter – and the forces of evil were after me.
Chapter Two
It was all very well being a superhero but I couldn’t do anything about the rain. I did try, gesturing at the sky and waving my hands around in the same manner as when I’d slowed down time earlier so I could literally dodge bullets. I also used the most imperious tone I could manage to order the sky to cease its drippy torment, but that was about as useful as King Canute attempting to hold back the tide.
That thought made me scowl. I could remember a long-dead English king from some history lesson but I still couldn’t remember who I was? Ridiculous. All the same, given what little I had learned about myself, calling the police no longer seemed prudent.
‘Thank you,’ I said primly to the nearest man. ‘Without your timely intervention, we’d currently be surrounded by the country’s finest. Not involving them is much more sensible. I won’t be so rash in the future.’
He lifted his head and blinked at me with the confusion of the concussed. Still, when I raised an eyebrow in his direction, he was a good little boy and let his head clunk back down again. That was better.
What I really needed, besides an umbrella, was cash. With no specific destination in mind and nothing on me beyond one corpse’s key fob and some chewing gum, I wouldn’t get very far. I needed some silver so I could cross a few palms.
‘Compensation,’ I said aloud. I crouched beside the first man and started rummaging through his pockets. ‘It’s only fair, after all. You did attack me entirely without provocation.’ I retrieved a wallet, bulging with crisp new bank notes, and helped myself to them. ‘I’m being generous,’ I told him. ‘I’m leaving you ten quid to get yourself a taxi or a pint of milk for when you get home.’ There weren’t any credit or bank cards but swiping anything like that was asking for trouble.
I nodded, satisfied. Then I unbuckled his heavy, expensive-looking Rolex and slipped it into my pocket.
The second man was equally prepared with the same wad of new notes. As I drew them out, I frowned. It looked like the same amount I’d taken from McNasty Numero Uno. Pursing my lips, I ambled over to the third man, who’d been shot by his mates. Oddly, his chest was still rising and falling. I could have sworn the bullet had hit him dead on in the heart. Not a corpse after all, then.
‘You’re superheroes too,’ I murmured. Then I corrected myself. ‘Make that supervillains. I wonder what manner of beastie can sustain a direct gunshot wound to the heart and still be alive?’
I reached down for his wallet, realising at the same time that my shoulder wound no longer smarted, although my finger was still throbbing from the sword slice I’d given myself. No doubt that was what they’d meant by coating the bullets. If they had managed to do that, I didn’t think I’d still be breathing. It was helpful to discover that I had my own personal kryptonite. It made sense, I thought reasonably; no superhero was invincible.
Shaking off my turbulent thoughts, I counted the third lot of money. Same. A shiver rippled across my damp skin. The attack wasn’t personal, then: these guys had been hired to kill me. The thought was not cheering. All it meant was that next time they’d send someone stronger. Yippee.
By the time I was done, my pockets were straining at the seams. If I was careful, there was enough money to tide me over for some time. All I had to do now was to get as far away from here as possible.
Parked out the front was a large Jeep, which no doubt belonged to my attackers. Figuring that it wouldn’t hurt to delay them further by taking it, I hopped inside, pleased to see that the keys in the ignition. Whoever the men were, they were certainly mucky pups; greasy burger wrappers and crisp packets littered the floor and there was a stale odour.
I searched the glove compartment, looking for clues like a good detective. The only thing I found, however, was a flyer for a swish-looking bar called the Metropolitan. The address at the bottom indicated it was in Manchester. That was good. We had to be near the city – and a city large enough and anonymous enough for me to lose myself in.
It was tempting to veer off into the countryside and hide for the rest of my days in a quaint little village but who ever heard of a superhero who lived on farmland? Even Clark Kent had abandoned ruralsville as soon as he’d had the chance. I ground my teeth. Gasbudlikins. It really annoyed me that I could remember that.
As I drove, I tried to work out what else I could remember. Anything to do with myself or my own history had me drawing a big, fat blank, yet I could remember how to drive. Obviously. When I pulled onto the motorway heading into the city, I could also remember a shortcut that avoided the speed cameras. So maybe I was from Manchester? Not that I seemed to possess a Mancunian accent. Perhaps I’d been privately educated. My brain ached with the effort of trying to jolt my memory and, in the end, I gave up. Tomorrow was another day, after all.
I abandoned the Jeep in a silent side street that was emblazoned with no-parking warnings but appeared to be bereft of security cameras. Then I walked, winding my way through narrow streets until I’d allowed enough distance between myself and the vehicle to be safe.
Before too long, I came across the welcome lights of a Travotel and presented myself under the highly imaginative name of Joan Smith to a weary-looking desk clerk, who helpfully gave me the keys to a small ground floor room without asking for ID. I mentally patted myself on the back for my forethought at getting this room – I needed to be able to exit from the window if any more wrinkled, bald goons came after me.
Then I collapsed onto the bed fully clothed and fell into a blissful sleep.
***
It was odd that, when I woke up on the bed some hours later, I was considerably more disorientated than I had been when I found myself concussed on a golf course next to a dismembered corpse. I could only assume that I’d been suffering from shock at the time, which was why I’d managed to treat last night with such calm. Now, the fog of confusion that lit through me when I opened my eyes to the blank Travotel ceiling set my heart hammering against my ribcage.
Taking short, shallow breaths, I gave my cheeks a few slaps. The clock on the bedside table indicated it was already gone noon. Perhaps I just wasn’t a morning person. I reached for the remote and turned on the television, irritably skipping past the hotel’s welcome channel to find the news. North Korea was threatening military action against the south; there were delays on the M5 because of an overturned lorry; VAT was set to increase. There was nothing about a grisly death on a golf course. Even the local news made no mention of it. That was … interesting. Equally, there were no reports of any missing women. Maybe no one had noticed I’d gone.
I lifted up my blouse and examined my ribs. As painful as they’d felt last night, there was no longer any signs that I’d been so much as slightly bruised. I prodded the skin but there was no flare of agony. My finger where I’d sliced myself on the headless corpse’s damn sword was a different matter; it still throbbed and the small wound was looking distinctly green. I supposed it was entirely possibly to get gangrene in your finger. Why wouldn’t it be?
Pursing my lips, I headed into the small, windowless bathroom, flicking on the light and catching sight of my reflection for the first time. Green eyes, the afore-noted boring brown hair and, if I did say so myself, a cute upturned button nose with a sprinkling of freckles. I assessed myself as a decent eight out of ten on the attractiveness-ometer, in my late twenties, with clear, healthy-looking skin. I opened my mouth and examined my teeth. Satisfyingly straight, white and even. There was a glint of something towards the back of my mouth. Craning my neck into a most undignified position, I decided it was a gold filling. Well, I shrugged, it could be worse. At least I didn't have braces.
