Read Online Louis Beside Himself by Anna Fienberg - Free Book Online Page A

matter what happened. It would be a rotting secret inside me.
    I just wanted to close my eyes and go to sleep.
    â€˜Cordelia.’ The burglar came to my rescue – again. Cordelia? I’d never seen anyone who looked less like a Cordelia. Surely a Cordelia should look more fragile, like a person dying of a chest infection in an opera, or a maiden with long golden hair, trapped high up in a tower for much of the eighteenth century?
    Singo and Hassan exchanged glances, their eyebrows going all acrobatic.
    â€˜Are you a friend of Rosie’s?’ asked Hassan.
    â€˜Who?’ said Cordelia.
    Suddenly Singo began to laugh. ‘Nice hat,’ he said, nudging Hassan.
    I whipped off the damn beret, and cleared my throat. Hassan smiled at me encouragingly.
    â€˜Look,’ I said, ‘Cordelia is . . .’
    I was taking a deep breath, searching for another, kinder word for burglar – I didn’t want to introduce her like that – when the mute thing came back. It is always possible to tell the truth , said Mr Mainprize, if you do it with kindness and consideration. But my words had abandoned me, rushing silently from the room.
    Cordelia looked at me. God. I hoped she wasn’t going to give a full uncensored description of my cowardly behaviour. Or maybe I deserved it. I hung my head in shame.
    â€˜I broke in,’ Cordelia said into the quiet. ‘I was escaping from a bad man, and I, um, sought refuge in this humble abode. Your friend here helped me out.’
    â€˜Geez,’ said Singo. ‘Where’s the man now?’
    He looked at me, but I was looking at Cordelia. H UMBLE ABODE – what interesting words, old-fashioned . . . Cordelia sounded definitely more like her name when she said abode .
    I caught Singo’s eye and felt myself blush. I forgot about abode.
    â€˜The man is gone? You chased him away, Lou?’ Hassan was looking at me admiringly. ‘What, you performed the Jericho move, or maybe a dropkick? Ha, like this?’ And he chopped the air with his leg.
    â€˜Or you could have jumped up on the table and done a moonsault, you know, with a full-body spin for extra leverage.’ Singo leapt about the kitchen, his arms swinging, fists punching. Hassan laughed a bit hysterically.
    I opened my mouth, but no words came out. The red crept up to my eyebrows and I felt as hot as a desert wind in Afghanistan. I couldn’t find even one word to explain, excuse or justify. Or lie. Was this going to happen every time a crisis hit me? I looked at them horsing around and tried to smile, shrugging my shoulders as if at the P ERPLEXITIES of life. But all the time I was thinking: imagine if they’d seen me just half-an-hour before, when I’d been as mute and helpless as a prop in a play.
    Singo stopped chopping the air, and poured himself and Hassan a glass of water. ‘So, where do you live?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back to your parents?’
    Cordelia snorted. For the first time, she looked uncomfortable, which was pretty amazing considering everything that had happened. She picked at a hole in her jeans. I was looking for the right words to help her. A word.
    But Hassan was studying Cordelia. ‘Sometimes even your parents can’t help you,’ he said gently, as if he knew all about it. He came and sat next to Cordelia. ‘I am Hassan and this is Singo. You are homeless?’ he asked softly.
    When he put it that way, I remembered a documentary on TV about the Salvation Army, and how they were trying to help young people who were living on the streets because home wasn’t safe. I looked at our kitchen table laden with exquisite, half-finished food, the kitchen cupboards with all their clean cups and plates neatly stacked, the fridge humming away, fat and full. I felt sick with sadness. And a kind of guilt.
    Cordelia looked up from her jeans. ‘Hassan – you’re from where,