II.

It was like a surreal movie or a drug trip. First he was lying at the foot of the steps listening to the sirens' Doppler dance. Then he was on his back on a stretcher with an oxygen mask over his face. He thought he could hear Eddie moaning weakly, but he wasn't sure. Then he was in an ambulance, racing through the streets, and Eddie's moans were louder ... they were being bundled off at the hospital; something about seeing this one stat, and Eddie being rushed away at top speed ... some little kid saying "Why does that old man have tubes up his nose?" ... then he was finally fully awake with a nurse leaning over him.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Smoke inhalation," she said succinctly. "Plus you ruptured your Achille's tendon going down the steps. Just lie still, it's not serious, and the doctor's already put it in a cast."

Richie seized the nurse's sleeve. "It's not that awful ginger-haired pseudo-punk ... what was his name ... Mr Basterd?"

"Oh, no, Mr Basterd's long gone," the nurse said, leaving the room.

Thank God for small miracles! Richie sat up and looked around; he was still in the examination room. He tried to piece together what had happened, but aside from guessing that Eddie had probably been smoking and watching telly and drinking, he knew very little. Well, no, he was sure he wouldn't be able to go back to the flat for a long time. He didn't know if the upstairs rooms had become involved, although that seemed likely. For both he and Eddie, the loss of what was in their bedrooms was more serious than the loss of anything downstairs – they both kept their irreplaceable mementoes in their rooms.

Richie took a deep breath. The air was pure, but it made him cough anyway. His bronchial tubes felt the way they did after the annual Hammersmith Riots around Carnival time, when the burning that accompanied the looting choked the streets with smoke for days on end. The fact that he could even feel them at all, that he could tell where the main air tube split off in his chest, plunging into each lung, was a bad sign.

He wondered how Eddie was feeling. He wondered how he was going to get home. He wondered if he would have to figure out who he was going to stay with until the house was back in shape. He wondered if the insurance on the place would cover it. He wondered if the policy had expired with Aunt Mabel. He wondered why these things kept happening to him.

He fell asleep somehow and woke up to be told that he was being discharged. He learned that Eddie had been admitted to the pulmonary care ward with serious, but not life-threatening, smoke inhalation and would be kept there for as long as a week.

Richie bought a copy of the Guardian and a small stuffed animal and hied himself along, still dressed in pajamas, the casted leg thumping along like a pegleg, to the pulmonary ward, only to be told he couldn't see Mr Hitler right away because he was getting a physiotherapy evaluation. He sat down and read the paper, every page of it; he did the crossword and the Sudoku; he read the paper again; he stared out the window and watched people come and go on the street; and still nobody came to tell him he could see Eddie yet. He gave the stuffed animal to a little girl who was restless and driving her mum up the wall. He went back to the nurse's station and told them he was there to see Mr Hitler, and was told he was having physiotherapy.

"But he was having that when I got here," Richie protested.

"Oh, really? That was four hours ago! I'm sorry, I'll call you as soon as he's done."

Richie drew a deep breath to scold the nurse for her carelessness. The sudden rush of air irritated his bronchial tubes, and he coughed uncontrollably. He saw stars; the edges of his vision turned black and he though he was going to pass out – but the nurse came round the counter, helped him to a chair and told him to put his head between his knees.

"You sound like you could use some respiratory physio yourself, sir," the nurse observed when he got his breath back.

"Well, I don't know why, I was only in the same fire as my mate," Richie said, sitting up carefully. "But he was in the lounge, where it probably started; I was upstairs. I only got a little bit of smoke."

"Still, you should be using your inhaler," the nurse said.

"My what?"

"Your inhaler. Didn't you get a prescription for something to open up your bronchial tubes until they heal?"

"No, nothing," Richie said.

"Oh for heaven's sake," the nurse said. "What's your name again?"

"Richard Richard," he said.

She picked up the phone and tapping in a number. "Maybe the doctor didn't think it was necessary, but ..."

Richie turned away and looked around the ward. He saw Eddie lying in a bed with his glasses off, asleep. He had a tube up his nose, like Richie had had, an IV in one arm, electrodes on his chest and something clipped to one index finger. Richie's eyes stung a little and his throat closed up a bit at the sight. What would he do if something happened to Eddie? In spite of everything, Eddie was a constant, a familiar presence ...

Something clicked and he turned back to the nurse, who was drumming her fingers on the table.

"Are you on hold?" he mouthed silently. She nodded.

"Eddie's not having physio," he told her softly. "He's asleep."

"Yes, this is Kathleen Hutchence in Pulmonary, I have a recently discharged A&E patient named Richard Richard who says he didn't get a prescription for a bronchiodilator inhaler, and he's having symptoms that seem to suggest he should have gotten one ... oh. I see. Yes, I'll send him down. Thank you." She hung up. "They forgot. You can pick them up at the front desk in A&E."

"Fine, fine," Richie said. "My friend over there, he doesn't seem to be getting any physiotherapy at the moment. In fact, he seems to be having a bit of a kip."

Nurse Hutchence started and turned pink. "Well, um, yes, I actually told him you were here, and he said to not let you in until he was done sleeping ... he was rather adamant about that."

Richie was in Eddie's room before the nurse could stop him. He leaned over the bedrail and stuck his face near Eddie's. "You'll have plenty of time to sleep later, you spoiled smoked trout," he snarled softly. "Wake up!"

Eddie opened one eye. "Bugger off," he rasped.

"I will not, young man! I've been waiting four hours, worried sick about you, and you knew I was there, and you couldn't be fucked to see me, could you?"

Eddie weakly waved two fingers at him. "I'm not feeling up to coping with your volumes of bollocks, all right?"

"You wouldn't be up to anything if I hadn't saved your life, in spite of the fact that I'd thrown my back out," Richie pointed out. "Hang on ... if my back's out, how am I leaning over your bed without pain? Fuck, who's in charge of continuity around here?"

"Not me, mate," Eddie muttered, turning his head away from Richie.

"Well, maybe I put it back in place when I was yanking you out the door," Richie said.

"That's convenient," Eddie agreed listlessly. "Look, will you just get on with the fucking plot?"

"There's a plot?"

"Maybe."

"Nobody told me!"

"Well, that's because you'd probably go babbling it all over fucking Britain if they told you about it. Look, go away, please, I'm not involved in this bit."

At a loss, Richie left Eddie alone and went back to A&E, where he collected a green hockey puck he was told was the inhaler, as well as a few other medications that were supposed to help him with his injuries. He thought about going back to wait to see if Eddie was any better – but he realized that visiting hours would soon be over and he'd need somewhere to stay. He was technically a millionaire now, but he had no home, no money, no chequebook, and no credit card. Asking around the A&E waiting room for change, he instead was allowed to use a waiting vicar's mobile phone, and he used it to call Ethel Cardew.

"Richie! Are you all right?" Ethel asked when she heard his voice.

"I'll live," he said shortly.

"I heard there was a building that burned down in your neighbourhood, but I didn't know if it was your place or –"

"A building?"

"Yes, the whole thing burned to the ground," she said. "Total loss, they were reporting."

Richie drew a deep, shuddering breath, which started another coughing fit. He fumbled with the inhaler and managed to get a puff off it, which made him feel a little better, but he still had to put his head down to get rid of the dizzy feeling.

"Richie? Richie?" Ethel was asking.

"Sorry, I inhaled a little smoke in getting out of there," he said. "The whole thing's gone?"

"I drove past this afternoon," she said. "The council's already tearing down what's left."

"Well, that's just effing marvelous," he said brokenly.

"And you called because you need money."

"Well, yes, I've nowhere to stay, no cash, no credit ..."

"Well, I can't help you with the financial end of this," she said. "There's all kinds of red tape before you can actually get your hands on the money, you know – and with your credit rating, nobody's going to be willing to loan you anything. Not without charging usurious interest, anyway; which, in the strongest possible terms, I do not advise you to pay."

"Well, if that's all I can get –" Richie began acidly.

"Hang on, hang on, Richie, let me finish. There's ways around this. Now I can get you a hotel room, pay for it myself, and bill it to your financial services account with me. I would have to tack on a small surcharge for the time and use of my money – nothing usurious, of course. But as your financial adviser I have to say that's still not the best option."

"Then what is my best option?" Richie exploded. Was this how Eddie felt talking to him sometimes?

"Your best option, financially speaking, is to stay with a friend who will let you use her spare rooms until you get all this bureaucratic nonsense cleared up and you get your hands on your inheritance."

Richie almost sobbed in frustration. "I don't know anyone who'd let me stay with them – nobody I'd want to stay with, that is."

"Sure you do. You know me, don't you?"

Richie couldn't find anything to say.

"Look, I have a maisonette, nice place, four bedrooms, plenty of room for you and Eddie to stay for as long as you need," she said. "Emphasis on 'need,' of course. I'm going to know when you have your money, and I'll be glad to help you find a place once you do, but when you do reach that point you'll have a month to find it. After that, I'm changing the locks and won't be responsible for sheltering you."

"I think I'd be insulted if the situation weren't what it is," Richie said. "I'll take it. Um..."

"You need a ride," she said.

"Well, yes. I have about 15 pence, and that's because I found it in a vending machine."

"Fine. I'll be there in twenty minutes. ... How's Eddie?"

"He'll live," Richie said shortly. "Look, after Agincourt, I really don't care to discuss him with you."

"Richie, that was almost twenty years ago!"

"I don't care. You let him shag you, and --"

There was silence, and Richie wondered if he'd gone too far, reminding her of that.

"Of course, Richie," she said in a controlled, subdued tone. "But I think we are going to have to discuss what happened. See you in a bit."