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In my room. Alone. A knock on the door — Dervish. “Where's Bill-E?”
“He had to go home.”
“That's a shame — I was going to cook pancakes. I have a sudden craving for them.”
I start to tell Dervish that Bill-E's returning to stay the night. Before I can, he says, “I have to head out later.”
“Oh?”
“I'm meeting Meera. We're going to see some old friends. I could be gone all night. You'll be OK by yourself?”
I nod wordlessly.
“I'll give you a shout before I go,” he promises.
On the phone to Ma Spleen, asking for Bill-E. “He just got home from school,” she says frostily. “He's eating.”
“It's important.”
“Everything seems to be important today,” she grumbles, but calls him to the phone.
“When you return, enter by the back door and try not to let Dervish see you,” I tell him.
“Why?” he asks.
“He just told me he's going out for the night. He thinks I'm going to be here by myself.”
“So?”
“Let's quit with the seen-it-all, done-it-all act,” I snap. “If Dervish is what we think, there could be trouble tonight — real trouble. If he doesn't know you're in the house, he won't expect to find you if he gets free later. That might work in our favor in case of an attack.”
“There won't be an attack,” Bill-E insists.
“Maybe — but come in by the back anyway, OK?”
A moment's pause. Then, in a subdued tone, Bill-E mutters, “OK.”
Bill-E sneaks in without Dervish spotting him. Hides in my room. We keep the door shut and our voices low when we speak — which isn't often. I keep a firm hold on the axe I've been lugging about for the past few nights. Bill-E still doesn't believe we're in any danger, but he has a short sword lying on the bed close by, which I fetched for him from downstairs.
He's in a terrible state, white and shivering. He's been sick three times in the space of the last couple of hours. I see now that it isn't nerves — he really is ill.
“You should be home in bed,” I whisper as he wraps blankets around himself and gulps down a glass of warm milk.
“I feel like death,” he groans, eyes watering.
“Do you want to leave?”
He shakes his head firmly. “Not until morning. I'm going to see this through with you, to prove that Dervish isn't a killer.”
“But what if —”
He stops me with a quick cutting motion. “He's coming!” he hisses, and tumbles off the bed, dragging his blankets and empty glass with him, lying flat on the floor, holding his breath.
I sit up in bed and open a comic, which I pretend to read.
Moments later, Dervish knocks and enters. “Coming for dinner?”
“No thanks — not very hungry tonight.”
