The girl who dropped in
By Warren Griffiths
Copyright 2010 Warren Griffiths
…
Saturday
Jonathan Theodore lived an ordinary life in a common suburban street in a Canberra suburb so much like every other as to be not worth describing. Suffice to say that, if you are a suburban dweller, simply venture outside and look around. There, you have successfully set the opening scene of this tale. For those who live elsewhere, find a suburb and stand in it. Any suburb will do, they are all pretty much the same around here.
In general, Jonathan Theodore's life was routine, unsurprising and contained very little of interest to anyone whose name was not Jonathan Theodore. If your name happens to be Jonathan Theodore and you are not the subject of this story, my apologies for describing you as boring. I'm sure you lead a very exciting life but you may wish to perhaps change your name to create a better self-image. Something like Max Strong might work.
It came as some surprise for Jonathan, therefore, to be talking to a policeman at his door this day. It would come as a greater surprise when he was to discover that he had in fact lied to said policeman regarding the matter at hand. Being a law-abiding citizen, Jonathan would not normally entertain such deceptions for a minute. But Jonathan's life was soon to change in ways he could not yet imagine.
Closing the door he frowned at the interruption to his routine. He frowned even more at the sounds of cracking, breaking, falling and a rather large thud coming from the kitchen. Today was just not going to schedule.
That schedule by the way consisted of:
Wake up - tick,
Make breakfast consisting of a cup of tea and two poached eggs on toast (it being a Saturday) - tick,
Whilst reading the paper (the one that doesn't contain page 3 girls - you will understand what I am talking about soon) - tick,
Shower - tick,
Brush teeth - tick,
Shop for fruit and veggies at the local market,
Lunch,
Pottering in his rather proud of garden (it being sunny),
Reading a book for 2 hours,
Cooking dinner and finally
Watching the evening TV whilst sipping on a nice glass of red.
It did NOT consist of talking to random police officers concerning missing persons nor the sound of his house falling apart! Imagine the depth of his frown, and other possible facial expressions, when upon venturing to the rear of the house he was to come across a partially clad girl laying on his kitchen floor! Unconscious! By all accounts the very same one that he had just told the police, "I'm sorry there is no one by that description here."
Of greater surprise was the gaping hole where there was once pristine ceiling. Well, actually it wasn't all that pristine, there had been some dodgy work done over the ... hang on there's a partially clad girl lying on the kitchen floor! Unconscious! Which incidentally is pretty much the only condition a partially clad girl would by lying on his kitchen floor. Let’s face it, it is extremely unlikely that a random girl would rip off her shirt, walk in off the street and decide to take a nap in the middle of this particular kitchen after first surrounding herself by broken plaster and splinters of wood. I mean the odds of such an event would require a computer with significant power to calculate. By coincidence such a computer did exist at work and, ... hang on there's a partially clad girl lying on the kitchen floor! Unconscious!
Thinking quickly, Jonathan stared at the girl ... for rather a long time. She was slim, very pretty and a little bit like those page three girls one sees in the local rag when the page just happens to flip open accidentally while one is at the newsstand buying a copy of the Financial Times! Yes, the Financial Times!
You know the sort of girls. Perfect in every way, and smart too. I mean they are just doing this to help pay for their way through medical school ... honest. (This raises an obvious question. If so many gorgeous girls are studying to become doctors then why is it that every time he goes to the local medical centre he always seems to be treated by someone who would only make page three of 'Back End of a Horse Monthly'! Sorry I digress.)
There was also the issue of her being partially clad. Her shirt, assuming she had once worn one, was nowhere to be seen, leaving her in a bra and a skirt that was made with an economical use of material to say the least. As such he was somewhat distracted by her appearance.
Once he had regained his composure, and putting his first aid skills to good use, he immediately ascertained she was breathing by the rise and fall of her ... um ... she was breathing. Looking for signs of blood he was pleased to find none. Nor any swelling ... on her anyway!
The next problem was that she couldn't stay where she was. Breaking a number of First Aid rules, he decided he would need to move her to somewhere more suitable. This was easier said than done. Jonathan was not what you would describe in terms other than weedy, thin, rake and, "Perhaps sir would find his size in the boys wear section."
He tried several options of grabbing hold of her none of which yielded much success although, to his initial titillation (if you excuse the pun), he managed to gain a good grip on a rather firm breast. That was his first breast ever! That, by the way, included his mother who decided right from the start that neither man nor child was ever going to be doing anything to ruin those things! It's a wonder Father hung around for as long as he did.
Eventually, he managed to drag the girl into the house proper. He placed her in the spare room that he always had ready for guests. A rather strange notion as Jonathan had no friends to speak of, nor family. He was an only child and his parents were both deceased, his Father five years ago finally realising that it was the only way to get some peace and quiet and his Mother only a year ago leading to a noticeable shrinking in both his phone and petrol bills. This meant that the only time this room was ever going to be used would be when somebody as yet unknown happened to just drop in ... well what do you know!
Later on, whilst finally in bed after checking on the girl for the 500th time, Jonathan realised that he had failed to do two things:
Call an ambulance - no tick and
Call the police - no tick.
Sunday
The Sunday routine consists of the following:
Wake up - tick,
Make breakfast consisting of a cup of tea and two poached eggs on toast (it being a Sunday) - tick,
Reading the Sunday paper (the one that doesn't contain page 3 girls - no further explanation required),
Shower,
Brush teeth,
Prepare a week’s worth of work clothes,
Lunch,
Pottering in his rather proud of garden (it being sunny),
Reading a book for 2 hours,
Cooking dinner and finally
Watching the evening TV whilst sipping on a nice glass of red.
He stood by the kitchen bench eating his routine Sunday breakfast of eggs and toast (it being a Sunday - tick) gazing out the window at his proud of garden thinking that a water feature would be nice.
"Why is there a hole in your ceiling?"
In an instant the vista featured a fetching yellow and white fresco. He was so lost in his thoughts (well thought) that he had not noticed the dishevelled, creeping ninja behind him.
He turned around only to notice that she was actually quite tall (by comparison) and that his eyes fell rather short of hers but not her ... hmmm. Eyes up!
"Ah ... hello ... umm how do you feel?"
"Fine ... I guess."
She ran her fingers through her hair. They got stuck halfway.
"Excellent ... umm," he stuck out his hand, "I'm Jonathan."
She replied with a confused look her hand still embedded in the sp
aghetti of her sandy locks.
"Jonathan," he repeated still holding out his hand altering his gaze between her and his outstretched limb as a hint.
She replied with a confused look.
Uncertain he began to withdraw his hand. Maybe he had breached some convention although he was certain he had not. But women were somewhat alien creatures to him. ‘Blimey,’ he thought, ‘if touching her hand was taboo, lucky she didn't know about him copping a feel last night!’
Her arm dropped slowly to her side.
"I ... I don't know my name."
The confused voice matched the confused look.
Really? Everyone has a name. How can anyone not know their name? It's generally not something you get wrong is it? Mind you for much of the earliest part of his life he was sure his name was 'little shit!' Unless....
"Ah amnesia!" He announced.
"I don't think that's my name."
"No, you have amnesia ... from the fall."
"Fall?"
He looked up at the ceiling.
She followed his gaze upwards.
"What was I doing up there?"
"Don't really know."
At this point he could have mentioned the
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