The Hippopotamus Page #2

gabbled at the sixth form.

Well, I hoped I'd find you here.

Where the last of

the semi-famous get assholed.

More than semi-famous.

My friends adore your reviews.

That train has just

pulled out, I'm afraid.

Really?

Sooth. You see before you

a recently fired man.

That is simply the best news.

Is it?

Will you come home with me?

With pleasure.

'Jane's home lived up

to my ripest expectations.

'As degrading a cocktail

of over-priced cliches

'can be found

outside Beverly Hills.

'Any given surface

'crammed with some mad

medley of crystal flacons,

'miscellaneous fertility d*ldos,

'and a veritable "who's who"

of international deities.'

You like?

Like isn't the word.

Some of the pieces

are really special.

That thing on the sofa's

a Kazakh placenta sheet.

'In the taxi over, Jane had

mentioned she had a job for me.

'I demurred, of course,

'and asked to be let out

somewhere in St. John's Wood.

'But she told the driver

to keep driving

'and assured me I was going

to simply love her terrific

'new idea, which she troubling

referred to as "the project".'

So.

Why are we here?

I have a proposition.

That's practically incest.

My doctor tells me I have

three months to live.

Leukemia.

Oh.

That's a smeller.

Scared?

Not anymore.

That's ballsy.

But it's a grotty age

and a grotty world

and we'll all be joining you

soon enough.

Do you believe in miracles?

As in calming the storms

and feeding the multitudes?

Give us a fag.

A marvelous and mysterious

thing has happened to me,

and I want you

to investigate it.

I don't know

what you have in mind,

but I'm not exactly

an investigative journalist.

You sure? No interest?

Well, it might be

ungodfatherly of me to suggest,

but it's a racing certainty

you're not in your right mind.

[Laughs] Well, you're forgiven.

But it's a pity, because

you know the people involved.

My Uncle Michael.

Michael Logan?

And I'd pay you handsomely.

25,000 now and the rest

either later or left in my will.

I... I thought you said...

The doctors say I'm going to

die. I don't believe I will.

Something happened to me

at Swafford Hall.

I want you to go there

and find the truth.

And if the truth is

you're not cured?

Then I'm dying of leukemia.

$25,000?

A hundred, all told.

Jane, there must be

1,000 journalists

who would do it

for a tenth of that sum.

But you're the only one

who'd get

through Swaffords front door.

- But Michael...

- You're godfather to his son.

Use him as your cover.

Delicious girl, since your

mother and I parted ways,

I've been as welcome

at Swafford as a...

A godson is still a godson.

Write to David.

Wangle an invitation.

And stay in touch.

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