by Aliya Whiteley

I threw up. Then I took a huge breath and slumped back down to the floor. She kneeled next to me and wiped my mouth with her skirt.

I'd never felt so . . . happy.

Breathing was good and having my mouth wiped by someone who had saved me was good, and I knew I'd never take another anti-depressant, because suddenly Cherry didn't matter any more.

I mattered, and, strangely, the girl from the magic shop mattered. Stevo mattered too, of course, you know, in a "good mate" sort of a way, but I half-wished he wasn't there so I could thank the girl without having to worry about sounding like a bit of a ponce.

"Panic over," she said, and slid her hand into mine.
"Steady as she goes."

From my position on the floor I could see through the window and up into the cloudless dark blue night sky, where the position of every star seemed just right. This felt like the beginning of a belief in fate. The girl leaned forward a little and looked into my eyes.

"Pupils fixed and dilated," she said. "Nah, just kidding. All's fine. Lucky, lucky you. I saved you."

"You saved me," I repeated. Her eyes were extraordinary. They were a deep colour, rich, like swirling velvet. I never wanted to look away.

"Indigo," she said. "They're indigo eyes. From the maternal side of the old genetic chestnut. Hoorah for the lottery of nature. Can you sit up?"

"Um . . . yeah." I struggled up and put my hands on my knees. "Wow."

"Intense," Stevo said. "I'm off." He got up and looked at the ruined board as he shrugged on his coat. "Five hundred quid," he said mournfully, as if the whole experience had been a little too much for him, and then left, waving goodbye over his left shoulder.

I had my chance. I decided to take it. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. Really. Thank you."

"No probs," she said.

"Not just for the choking thing. For everything. I think maybe we were meant to meet. It's destiny."

"Nope." She smiled so cheerfully for someone denying the existence of fate.

"How can you be sure it's not?" I said, trying not to sound petulant. "I mean, how can you explain it otherwise?"

"Yeah, it seems all organisationally Godlike to you at the mo," she said as she stepped over the sick-covered board and headed for the door, "but your life is really gonna change when I tell you that it's my job. The whole thing. The game. The coming here. My job."

I followed her to the door, which she opened, without a flinch at the rush of cold air and the spatter of rain drops.

"I don't understand."

"You got your life-changing experience, right? You'll never look at things the same way again. That's what you paid for. That's what you got."

"But I think I love you," I said.

"Nah. Gotta go. Ding dong. Customers waiting."

I caught her hand before she could step outside. "I still don't get it . . ." I started, and realised I didn't even know her name.

"Violet," she said with the finality of long-rehearsed line. "My name's Violet. You'll have a big bruise on your stomach. By the time it fades, you'll be a different person. Trust me, tiger."

I trusted her. So I let go of her hand and she left.

The remains of the sick-drenched Rainbow Race got left on the living room floorboards. Maybe it's still there. I lay next to it for three days, thinking about Violet, about Cherry, about games and fate and breathing. When my stomach stopped hurting, I rolled over on to my side, looked out of the window and up and the sky, and saw raindrops falling in thick purple sheets. When they stopped, I decided that I wanted to be some place where it didn't rain any more.

So I moved away from York. I'm Richard of Lanzarote now. I work in a cocktail bar, serving drinks of every colour you could imagine.

I might ask Stevo to come visit. I can afford to pay the five hundred quid air fare for him, you see, the pay is spectacularly good. But what else did you expect? There's always a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

* * * THE END * * *