again.
I heard the latch click as Joe turned his bedroom door handle, listened as he stepped out into the corridor. The stairs creaked one by one. Downstairs, right beneath my bed, it seemed, a chair shrieked across the kitchen floor. Still Joe kept on going.
The boy had come here because of me. I remembered his flashing gunmetal eyes. I remembered the strength in his cold hands as we danced. It was nothing to do with Joe. I followed out of fear rather than courage, knowing how awful it would be if something bad happened to Nick’s son and it was my fault. And there was Connie. The boy had got into my room. What was to stop him getting into hers?
I swung my legs out of bed, ran to the door and across the landing, cold in my stripey leggings and t-shirt. Joe had put the light on, thank God. I snatched a folded blanket from a chair on the landing, wrapping it around my shoulders as I went down the stairs.
I paused outside the kitchen, watching my own hand reach for the speckled brass door handle. I opened it, went in. It was empty, dark. The other door was slightly ajar, letting in a chink of light. I stepped into the corridor. The heavy back door was still firmly shut, but there was another door slightly open, glass panelled, much newer.
Joe stood alone in a shabby lean-to leading off the kitchen, wearing a pair of faded tracksuit bottoms and brown desert boots. His pale shoulder blades stood out like wings and he had terrible bed-head. Holding a plastic broom, he turned to face me, hair standing up in crazy spikes. I met his eyes, determined not to look embarrassed by the fact he wasn’t wearing a t-shirt. There was a lingering smell of cigarettes.
“Are you all right?” Joe said, very calm. He had more of a Yorkshire accent than Nick; it was a shock, I hadn’t noticed it much the evening before but between the two of us alone in the night, his words fell like hard stones, blunt and strange.
I tried not to think about my dream, the red-headed boy sitting on the end of my bed. How could I explain that to someone I’d only just met? Joe would think I was crazy and maybe he’d be right.
“I – I heard something.”
The door behind Joe was missing a pane of glass. I looked down and saw broken shards swept into a pile.
“My dad locked up: someone’s broken in,” he said. “They must’ve smashed the glass in the outside door and reached through to turn the handle.”
He didn’t look scared but he must have been.
“My mum’s stepbrother? Miles?”
Joe shook his head. “Wouldn’t he have keys?”
I stepped around the table to get a closer look and Joe said, quietly, “Wait. There might still be some on the floor. Listen, I had a look out the front. There’s another car on the drive. Is it your brother’s?”
I just turned and walked back into the kitchen, following that faint reek of tobacco. Joe came after me. The door to the sitting room was still ajar. I pushed it open and there he was, sprawling on one of the battered red sofas like a fallen angel. Asleep.
Rafe.
Not the boy, but just my brother. Making an entrance, as usual. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, that’s him.”
Joe frowned. “Nice of him to clear up. Your sister could have trodden in that.”
I turned, looking at Joe properly for the first time. “Rafe never clears up.”
“What an idiot,” Joe said, as if talking to himself. He reached past the sofa, took a newspaper off the pile on the coffee table to wrap the glass in, and went back to the kitchen. I didn’t know what to say; I’d never heard anyone call Rafe an idiot before.
I didn’t follow, just went back upstairs to bed. I sat there, leaning against the pillows as I’d done hours before, waiting to fall asleep. I shivered, imagining the boy walking through the kitchen in the dark, opening the landing door, climbing the stairs up to my room. Waiting till I woke. But that didn’t make sense. Nick had locked the house.
If Rafe had needed to break a pane of glass to
I heard the latch click as Joe turned his bedroom door handle, listened as he stepped out into the corridor. The stairs creaked one by one. Downstairs, right beneath my bed, it seemed, a chair shrieked across the kitchen floor. Still Joe kept on going.
The boy had come here because of me. I remembered his flashing gunmetal eyes. I remembered the strength in his cold hands as we danced. It was nothing to do with Joe. I followed out of fear rather than courage, knowing how awful it would be if something bad happened to Nick’s son and it was my fault. And there was Connie. The boy had got into my room. What was to stop him getting into hers?
I swung my legs out of bed, ran to the door and across the landing, cold in my stripey leggings and t-shirt. Joe had put the light on, thank God. I snatched a folded blanket from a chair on the landing, wrapping it around my shoulders as I went down the stairs.
I paused outside the kitchen, watching my own hand reach for the speckled brass door handle. I opened it, went in. It was empty, dark. The other door was slightly ajar, letting in a chink of light. I stepped into the corridor. The heavy back door was still firmly shut, but there was another door slightly open, glass panelled, much newer.
Joe stood alone in a shabby lean-to leading off the kitchen, wearing a pair of faded tracksuit bottoms and brown desert boots. His pale shoulder blades stood out like wings and he had terrible bed-head. Holding a plastic broom, he turned to face me, hair standing up in crazy spikes. I met his eyes, determined not to look embarrassed by the fact he wasn’t wearing a t-shirt. There was a lingering smell of cigarettes.
“Are you all right?” Joe said, very calm. He had more of a Yorkshire accent than Nick; it was a shock, I hadn’t noticed it much the evening before but between the two of us alone in the night, his words fell like hard stones, blunt and strange.
I tried not to think about my dream, the red-headed boy sitting on the end of my bed. How could I explain that to someone I’d only just met? Joe would think I was crazy and maybe he’d be right.
“I – I heard something.”
The door behind Joe was missing a pane of glass. I looked down and saw broken shards swept into a pile.
“My dad locked up: someone’s broken in,” he said. “They must’ve smashed the glass in the outside door and reached through to turn the handle.”
He didn’t look scared but he must have been.
“My mum’s stepbrother? Miles?”
Joe shook his head. “Wouldn’t he have keys?”
I stepped around the table to get a closer look and Joe said, quietly, “Wait. There might still be some on the floor. Listen, I had a look out the front. There’s another car on the drive. Is it your brother’s?”
I just turned and walked back into the kitchen, following that faint reek of tobacco. Joe came after me. The door to the sitting room was still ajar. I pushed it open and there he was, sprawling on one of the battered red sofas like a fallen angel. Asleep.
Rafe.
Not the boy, but just my brother. Making an entrance, as usual. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, that’s him.”
Joe frowned. “Nice of him to clear up. Your sister could have trodden in that.”
I turned, looking at Joe properly for the first time. “Rafe never clears up.”
“What an idiot,” Joe said, as if talking to himself. He reached past the sofa, took a newspaper off the pile on the coffee table to wrap the glass in, and went back to the kitchen. I didn’t know what to say; I’d never heard anyone call Rafe an idiot before.
I didn’t follow, just went back upstairs to bed. I sat there, leaning against the pillows as I’d done hours before, waiting to fall asleep. I shivered, imagining the boy walking through the kitchen in the dark, opening the landing door, climbing the stairs up to my room. Waiting till I woke. But that didn’t make sense. Nick had locked the house.
If Rafe had needed to break a pane of glass to
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