Read Online The Lives She Left Behind by James Long - Free Book Online
Authors: James Long
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needn’t be very long.’
Ali got to her feet. ‘They’re all going back to work. Come on.’ They walked back to the other trench, where Dozer was peering at the surface of the earth. ‘I’ll get
stage fright if I’m doing one by myself,’ she said.
‘You’ve done school plays.’
‘I was dressed up as someone else. I can do it then.’
‘All right, we’ll dress up.’
‘In what?’
‘We’ll find something. Old rags.’
‘What old rags? Anyway, what about Jo?’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Jo. ‘I can’t think of anything to say.’
‘Could you help me, maybe?’ Ali asked. ‘You could be there to remind me if I go wrong.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jo. ‘I’d rather just . . .’ but that was as far as she got because there was a loud gasp from the cliff above them and the dark shape of
a body, arms spread out, crashed down into the trench right next to them in a shower of leaves.
CHAPTER 5
Miles away and hours before, a boy blinked awake from a warm dream of love to find himself in an empty bungalow, momentarily unsure of his name. The room’s sour smell
drove his dream away in tatters. He stared at the wall facing him, pale blue and streaked white where water had leaked down. His pyjamas were too short for him and the polyester slither of the
sheet across his bare ankles filled him with a revulsion that drove him out of bed. Barry’s car battery stood on the hall table, casually dumped on top of his photography project, and when he
strained to lift it off it left wide black marks across the folder. He remembered it was Saturday, then that his exams were over and his holidays had started early. The thought gave him no
pleasure. A note on the kitchen table said ‘Luke, gone to the boot sale. Back later.’ With the last tendrils of the dream still twitching, that did not feel like his name, nor did this
thin and flimsy house feel like his home.
He dressed and went out to the garage, feeling a sudden magnetic pole-to-pole repulsion from this place where he had lived his sixteen years of life, knowing he wanted to get away, right away.
He pumped up his bicycle tyres and every rubbery push of the pump handle injected escape magic until the bounce of the bike told him it was ready to go with him. The road led east or west, and west
seemed the obvious chance with the morning sun behind him.
Leaving the house behind felt better and at the first junction he hesitated, tried one way then another then the third, which seemed the happiest choice in a way he could not have precisely
described. So it was at each turning and he made his choices faster and faster, feeling a need to keep going. An hour’s pedalling on empty lanes and thundering roads and then lanes again took
him further from home than he had ever strayed before. A second hour wiped the signposts clean of familiar places. His legs were aching but the unknown cheered him on from somewhere far ahead and
he even enjoyed the idea that he might not find his way back.
What stopped him was a conical hill, wrapped in trees, presented like a sudden invention of the earth as he laboured up out of a fold. The small tower rising from its summit snared his eye and
the moment he saw it he knew he had to climb it, as if this had always been his destination. He thought he might see anything from the top: the sea or lions on a plain or a purple city or his
future. On the edge of a village, he chained his bike to a fence and followed a beaten path to the base of the hill.
Where the trees started, the earth angled sharply upwards, and although a zigzag track offered an easier approach the boy scrambled straight up, using roots for handholds as the dry dirt sent
his feet skidding. The trees ended before the summit plateau, circling the tower like a monk’s tonsure.
Through its open doorway a hundred stone stairs twisted upwards, spiralling him to a cramped room right at the top where patches of wall-plaster were scored with the
Ali got to her feet. ‘They’re all going back to work. Come on.’ They walked back to the other trench, where Dozer was peering at the surface of the earth. ‘I’ll get
stage fright if I’m doing one by myself,’ she said.
‘You’ve done school plays.’
‘I was dressed up as someone else. I can do it then.’
‘All right, we’ll dress up.’
‘In what?’
‘We’ll find something. Old rags.’
‘What old rags? Anyway, what about Jo?’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Jo. ‘I can’t think of anything to say.’
‘Could you help me, maybe?’ Ali asked. ‘You could be there to remind me if I go wrong.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jo. ‘I’d rather just . . .’ but that was as far as she got because there was a loud gasp from the cliff above them and the dark shape of
a body, arms spread out, crashed down into the trench right next to them in a shower of leaves.
CHAPTER 5
Miles away and hours before, a boy blinked awake from a warm dream of love to find himself in an empty bungalow, momentarily unsure of his name. The room’s sour smell
drove his dream away in tatters. He stared at the wall facing him, pale blue and streaked white where water had leaked down. His pyjamas were too short for him and the polyester slither of the
sheet across his bare ankles filled him with a revulsion that drove him out of bed. Barry’s car battery stood on the hall table, casually dumped on top of his photography project, and when he
strained to lift it off it left wide black marks across the folder. He remembered it was Saturday, then that his exams were over and his holidays had started early. The thought gave him no
pleasure. A note on the kitchen table said ‘Luke, gone to the boot sale. Back later.’ With the last tendrils of the dream still twitching, that did not feel like his name, nor did this
thin and flimsy house feel like his home.
He dressed and went out to the garage, feeling a sudden magnetic pole-to-pole repulsion from this place where he had lived his sixteen years of life, knowing he wanted to get away, right away.
He pumped up his bicycle tyres and every rubbery push of the pump handle injected escape magic until the bounce of the bike told him it was ready to go with him. The road led east or west, and west
seemed the obvious chance with the morning sun behind him.
Leaving the house behind felt better and at the first junction he hesitated, tried one way then another then the third, which seemed the happiest choice in a way he could not have precisely
described. So it was at each turning and he made his choices faster and faster, feeling a need to keep going. An hour’s pedalling on empty lanes and thundering roads and then lanes again took
him further from home than he had ever strayed before. A second hour wiped the signposts clean of familiar places. His legs were aching but the unknown cheered him on from somewhere far ahead and
he even enjoyed the idea that he might not find his way back.
What stopped him was a conical hill, wrapped in trees, presented like a sudden invention of the earth as he laboured up out of a fold. The small tower rising from its summit snared his eye and
the moment he saw it he knew he had to climb it, as if this had always been his destination. He thought he might see anything from the top: the sea or lions on a plain or a purple city or his
future. On the edge of a village, he chained his bike to a fence and followed a beaten path to the base of the hill.
Where the trees started, the earth angled sharply upwards, and although a zigzag track offered an easier approach the boy scrambled straight up, using roots for handholds as the dry dirt sent
his feet skidding. The trees ended before the summit plateau, circling the tower like a monk’s tonsure.
Through its open doorway a hundred stone stairs twisted upwards, spiralling him to a cramped room right at the top where patches of wall-plaster were scored with the
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