I found her there a couple of hours later.
She was still breathing. Somehow.
As I examined her wound I discovered that the millions of tiny pricks covering the top side of her body were merely results of the smashing of the clay structure that now lay in pieces around her. The wound itself was in the fleshy part of her left thigh, and, so, had not been fatal.
But it was bad, and she needed treatment. Where, though? I didn’t know her family, or where she lived, mine were no use, (and besides, was it proper for a fifteen-year-old boy to take an unconscious fifteen-year-old girl to his house even in such a circumstance as this?) and there was no question of taking her to hospital.
I got this far as the light began to filter from the east and the dawn approached. Not many hours of darkness left. If I was not careful, the police might find us. And I didn't want that to happen. I might get accused of trying to stab a teenage girl. Or would prison or a hanging be more interesting than this current dreary monotony I called life.
I wasn’t even sure if I myself believed entirely in the blue-cloaked murderer. His effects were real. I only had to look at the blood pumping from Deanna Macpherson’s leg to know that, But was the blue-cloaked murderer himself a tangible being? Or was he a psychopathic reality distorted by some figment of my imagination? There wasn’t much choice between them. My sanity has always been disputed, especially by myself.
Or was I, Den O'Derron, the blue-cloaked murderer myself? Had I killed my sister? Had I tried to kill my sole friend, if a friend I could call Deanna Macpherson.
I sighed, flexing my arms. I would have to bring Deanna home.
Hoisting her slim body up on my hands, I realised that although slender she was well-developed, and I would have difficulty in carrying her far. At least home was just a few steps away. Somehow I managed to get her in a fireman's lift over my shoulder, which, despite its weighty discomfort, made me shiver with some embarrassing thrill I was unaccustomed to.
So, the red paint on her thigh dying my clothes crimson, I carried Deanna Macpherson into my house through the back door, up the stairs, and set her limp body down on my bed. What else could I do? There had been four beds in the house until the day I had chopped Vere's to make a contraption used for carrying painting - yes, I still curse myself - and the remaining two beds were out of bounds.
So Deanna Macpherson, her thigh bound with bandages by my clumsy great paws - ended up on my bed for the rest of that night and for the days following.