Blood Donors

Blood Donors Read Online Free PDF Page B

Book: Blood Donors Read Online Free PDF
Author: Steve Tasane
way to the park in a desperate effort to get some clean air. His breathin’ all weird like he risen up half drowned from a swamp.
    I’m thinkin’ what Sis would do right now.
Mebbe we should help him home?
    Mustaph shrugs.
Havin’ dragged himself all the way over here, he ain’t gonna thank us for draggin’ him back to our stinkhole. Man needs a hospital
.
    Let’s at least lift him up onto the bench, yeah?
    Mus shrug, bend down and get a grip under Mr Bush’s armpit. I ain’t so keen to stick my fingers into his drug-sweaty pits. His arm hangin’ limp like all the blood in it turned from blood to drug. Sick. I grab his collar instead, and together we yank him up.
    On the bench we got a better view of his face. Drugs mess you up. His eyes look like the eyes of pig in a slaughterhouse. His mouth hangin’ open, like he forgotten how to use his jaw muscles. Droolin’.
    Out the corner of my eye I clock Compo headin’ our way. He seein’ we huddled over old man on a bench, thinkin’ we up to mischief. Mustaph hates Compo more than I do.
Let’s split. Let ol’ Compo do his community business
.
    I ain’t happy.
Mebbe we can help more?
    Mallow, what you gonna do, give him the kiss of life?
    Gross. Community Police best equipped to deal with this. See us hangin’ around, they goin’ to try and pin a
ABC
on us – Assault ’n’ Battery Charge, yeah? Like we get our kicks from bashin’ up the elderly and sick.
    So we split, nice and calm, leavin’ Mr Bush and Compo to discuss religion together down the local A&E. I ain’t gettin’ involved. I’m rememberin’ Soft Stuart with his toes stickin’ outta the blanket, tryin’ to twitch themselves back to life. Today startin’ to freak me.
    I say
So if Mr B ain’t no druggie, what do you reckon made those marks on his arm?
    Dunno. Maybe a vampire been snackin’ on him? Come on, let’s do some decoratin’
.
    Boy can’t hold no topic of conversation for more than five seconds.
    Behind us, I see Compo doin’ his Good Samaritan bit with Mr Bush. He got him on his feet, half carryin’ him, half draggin’ him back in the direction of The Finger.
    Look at that. Idiot Compo takin’ poor fool straight back to where he crawled from.
    As we walk away, I hear Mr Bush squealin’ and tryin’ to pull away. But only half of him seems to have any movement, and bullyboy Compo ain’t havin’ none of it. Probably figured his community responsibility is to stick the druggies back inside their drug dens, where they ain’t harmin’ no one but themselves. He take no notice of Mr Bush screamin’ and hollerin’ like he bein’ led to his doom. Compo hates druggies. Compo hates everyone, but he hates druggies most of all. Removin’ him from the park, and stickin’ him back in The Finger is just like stickin’ litter in the bin.
    Mustaph don’ say a word. But his eyes is followin’ the scene, and his Musty brain is listenin’ to his eyes. Finally he say
Come, let’s find our wall
.
    After a while we find it, and Mustaph sets to work. Thing is, he got this joke that only he get, jus’ sprayin’ his wild lines and spots of colour and shadow and mutterin’
Can you tell what it is yet? Can you tell what it is yet?
like a broken parrot. He don’ give away no clues, he jus’ wave his arms like a windmill and squirts, and every now and again he hands me back a can and says
emerald
or
liquid blue
or
deep turmeric
or whatever crazy colour he wants. Then all of a sudden he steps back, and bam! just like that you know what it is .
    Mustapha workin’ away for twenty minutes mumblin’ his catchphrase. All I’m seein’ is a mess of sick colours around a big white splodge like a clean white T-shirt surrounded by piles of unwashed sports gear. Don’t make no sense. Then flash! a vision shoots through my mind like I’m havin’ a epiphany of my own. I know what it is.
    You know, I shoulda jus’ gone on back to my space and played Xbox with little Connor O’Connor, ’cos
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