Read Online The War Zone by Alexander Stuart - Free Book Online Page A

feel hot, flushed, almost paralyzed with fear or something as I see a nipple brush against the fabric inside and disappear back into the darkness. I force myself to speak. ‘It’s better watching you work than doing anything myself,’ I say, desperate for her not to see what an absolute moron I am. She twists her mouth, frowning at me as the vacuum head sucks noisily at the worn stair carpet. ‘Lazy little sod.’ She looks away, dismissing me from her thoughts. ‘Do you think you could get me another drink, or would that be too much effort?’
    I get it, my mind only on the image of ice cubes sliding down against that small dark nipple. I run a cube over my forehead and chest, feeling its cold edge draw a sharp line across my skin, then watch it bob in the glass, believing that by this feeble, not entirely hygienic, magic I might communicate to Lucy what I seem totally unable to say.
    I must spend ages over all this, because by the time I get back to her, Lucy has finished the stairs, gone back up to the top and has vacuumed the better part of my room.
    My room doesn’t look like my room—I have so far refused to admit to any permanence in terms of being here—but there is one magazine picture stuck on the wall by my bed, a two-page spread of some kids in Afghanistan, ripped down the middle and taped together.
    ‘You’re a strange boy, aren’t you?’ Lucy remarks, looking at this as I come in. She takes her drink, turns off the vacuum for a moment. ‘What do you want a picture like that for on your wall? ’
    I glance at it, the bombed-out village, the fresh blood on the ground, the fear and doubt on the children’s faces seeming both a lot like I feel and like an antidote to the blandness of my life.
    ‘I thought it might annoy Mum and Dad,’ I say, feeling strangely guilty all of a sudden. Lucy makes me feel as if I’m using the picture, using their suffering, which I suppose in a way I am. ‘It didn’t work,’ I add. ‘They don’t seem to mind.’
    I watch Lucy drink, unsure what to do next. She’s here in my room and there seems to be some point of contact between us, but I feel ridiculously young. I turn to go.
    ‘You’ve caught the sun, haven’t you?’ she says, before I can leave. ‘Your shoulders are all red. You should get your mum to put something on them.’
    ‘She’s got Jake to look after.’
    ‘Jack. Jake doesn’t suit him.’ I look at her, standing rolling the ice cubes—my ice cube—around
    in her glass. ‘Are they really red?’ I ask. ‘Maybe you could help? I’d do it myself, but it’s difficult reaching behind…’ She watches me curiously. I catch my breath, not quite believing this is going to get me anywhere. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Let me finish my drink first. You’re just lazy, Tom, aren’t you? You think anyone’s going to put up with this when you’re older?’ I don’t care, not now, not at the moment. I run down to the bathroom to get some cream, noticing the smudgy black footprint Lucy has left in the bath. I glance out the kitchen doorway at Mum. Jack has gone back to sleep and she is reading again, headset on. Then I race back upstairs, back to Lucy, who has the vacuum going again and is just finishing my bedroom. She switches it off. We sit on the bed and she uncaps the tube. Suddenly I know nothing is going to happen, nothing more than her massaging aftersun muck into my back. I don’t know what I expected, but I feel disappointed. ‘God, you’re going to peel,’ she tells me as she rubs my shoulders. It feels wonderful, cool and burning at the same time. ‘How did you let yourself get like this?’ ‘I don’t know. Do you sunbathe much?’ It’s a stupid question, in keeping with my mood now. ‘I don’t get the time.’ I twist my head around at her. ‘You must, sometimes. Weekends?’ ‘I work in a pub, weekends. I’m trying to save enough to go and live with my aunt in France for a year.’ I don’t want to know this—not because