little later, while Theo struggled desperately to keep the nappy from sliding down round his ankles, the donkey went to the door and pushed it open a crack. “Guard.”
Theo couldn’t see the duck, but he could hear its voice. “Sir.”
“There’s been a dreadful accident,” the donkey said. “The human broke out of its cage and attacked us. I managed to subdue it, but my colleague is badly hurt. I shall take him to the Owl for medical treatment. You must stay outside this door and not let anyone pass until I return. Is that understood?”
“Sir.”
“Very good. Carry on.” The donkey backed into the room. “Right,” it whispered, “In the pig’s bag there’s a roll of bandage. Wind it round your head and face, and then I’ll help you with the arms and legs. Quickly.”
“And remember,” the donkey added, as Theo, mummified except for a narrow slit for his eyes, scrambled on to the donkey’s back, “you’re dying, so groan a bit. But don’t overdo it.”
The duck didn’t even look at him as they went past. Various bears, rabbits, baby deer, bipedal gun-toting dogs and generic small cuddly mammals turned to stare at them as they crossed the compound, but the donkey kept calling out, “Medical emergency! Radiation!” as they passed, so they had a clear run as far as the checkpoint gates, which were guarded by two elephants with huge ears, little yellow caps and shotguns.
“Medical emergency,” the donkey said.
The elephants didn’t move. “Papers.”
“My colleague here was standing right next to the reactor core when it blew,” the donkey said. “He’s suffering from massive radiation exposure. For pity’s sake, don’t get too close.”
“Papers.”
“He’s already starting to mutate,” the donkey said. “I need to get him to the university, we’ve got equipment there that might save him. Don’t look,” he added, as one elephant leaned forward, “it’s horrible.”
The elephant stretched out its trunk and twitched aside a fold of bandage from Theo’s face. “My God,” the elephant said, “he’s right.” It shrank back and shouldered arms. “Pass,” it said.
Half a mile from the compound, the donkey stopped, looked back and said, “Right. We’re clear. Get the hell off me.”
Theo slid to the ground and started clawing at the bandages, which had been driving him crazy. It took him a minute or so, but eventually he was free of them, at which point he became painfully aware that he was wearing nothing but the pig’s bulbous pink nappy. He cringed, and tried not to think about it.
“Come on,” the donkey said. “We’ve still got a long way to go.”
They walked in silence for a while. The donkey was tense, forever craning its neck to look around for pursuers or patrols. “I figure we’ve got an hour’s start on them,” it said eventually. “Then someone’s going to come looking for Piglet and me. And then the candy floss is really going to hit the fan.”
Theo had been meaning to ask. “Why?” he said. “Why did you rescue me?”
The donkey gave him a long, sad look. “Because you’re not the first sentient talking human I’ve come across, is why,” he said. “And because I’m a true scientist. I may hate the truth with every bit of kapock of my stuffing, but I can’t deny it’s true. It’s a little thing called integrity, I don’t suppose you have it where you came from.”
“Well,” Theo said. “Actually, yes. Sort of.”
“Really? You surprise me.” The donkey stopped and glowered at him. “I’m inclined to doubt that,” it said.
“Oh?”
“Oh yes. Because,” it went on, “if sentient talking humans really exist, then it’s more than likely that there’s a grain of truth in the old stories. In which case,” he added, “I ought to kick your arse from here to the Hundred Acre Wood.” An agonised expression passed over his face. “Look,” he said, “I’ve got to ask. Are you him?”
“Who?”
“Christopher Robin.”
Theo shook his head slowly. “Not as such, no.”
The donkey breathed slowly in and out. “Thought not,” he said. “Too old, for one thing. Also, I resolutely refuse to believe in the existence of Christopher Robin. You could say that’s the cornerstone of my very being.”
“Nope,” Theo said, “I’m not him.”
“Ah.”
“But he was real,” Theo couldn’t resist adding. “He grew up and ran a bookshop somewhere in the west of England. Died about fifteen years ago.”
The donkey groaned and said nothing for a while. Then it stopped again. “And the rest of it?” it said. “Is it true?”
“I don’t know. What are you talking about?”
The donkey looked away.