Stones. Polly Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ notice my hesitation because he sits forward and smiles. ‘So,’ he says, ‘why are you bunking off?’

      I’m about to change the subject like I always do, when something strange happens and I find myself talking as if it’s nothing to do with me at all. A whole stream of words that burst out together in one breath: ‘It’s my brother,’ I tell him. ‘He died. Everyone thinks I should be over it by now, but I’m not. They think it’s because I miss him, I suppose, but I don’t. They’d think I was evil if I said so, but I just don’t.’

      ‘Oh,’ he says and waits for me to go on, but it’s more than I’ve admitted to anyone before. I feel the panic rising and it must show in my face because he shakes his head. ‘Forget it,’ he says. ‘If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. Leave it.’

      We sit there, avoiding each other’s eyes, but just as it’s getting awkward he asks for my number and email address. After that we leave, walking through the town in a warm silence. We wander for hours, in and out of shops, along the pier and through the arcades. We buy sandwiches and take them down to the promenade to eat like we’ve known each other for years. I watch his face when I’m sure he won’t notice, and follow the calm movement of his hands as he rolls up the sandwich wrappers. Once it’s late enough he walks me home and when we reach the bottom of my road he stuffs his hands in his pockets and grins. For a boy who’d obviously been blubbing when I met him, he smiles more than most people.

      ‘Goodbye then,’ he says and goes ten paces before turning back and calling out: ‘Oh! How stupid – I don’t know your name. Mine is Joe. Joe Steen.’

      ‘Coo,’ I say. ‘At least that’s what everyone calls me.’

      ‘Coo,’ says Joe. ‘Coo. Like a dove. I like that.’

      I stand and watch him till he disappears. He’s put a long coat over his uniform and his blonde head seems to shine. For the first time in ages, I reach home without thinking how much I hate it there. It’s not the place itself but the silence; especially the silence in Sam’s empty room. I don’t think about that today, though. Today I don’t mind going in, because I’ve got something new to think about. Something that makes me feel warm and wanted instead of empty and afraid.

       2.

      We’ve lived in Brighton for two years. Before that we lived in Oxford and before that, somewhere else. Mum and Dad would decide that this move would be the last; that a change of scene would do it. It wouldn’t, of course, so then they’d decide that Sam would manage on his own if they paid his rent, but nothing lasted. After a few months, he’d turn up on our doorstep looking dirty and desperate, and Mum and Dad would let him right on in. I would have just shut the door in his face, brother or not, but no one listened to me – and now we are three.

      You can still see us as a whole family in the photo on my bedroom wall – Mum, Dad, Sam and me. It’s taken in the before; you can tell because we’re smiling. The photo shows us on holiday, wearing shorts and squinting in the sun. I’m just a toddler, and Sam is about ten. He stands in front of us grinning, one hand brushing the curls from his eyes and the other waving into the future with no idea of where he’s heading. I leave it up so I can remember that it wasn’t always like this.

      Our house is in a long row. It has three storeys and two front doors: a normal one that leads into the hall and another for what used to be a downstairs room and is now Mum’s antiques shop. Two people are coming out as I arrive, with a glass lamp and a curly legged table tucked under their arms, which makes them look like escaping thieves instead of customers. There’s a little tussle on the doorstep while we do that dance people do when they’re in each other’s way, and it’s as I stand aside to let them pass that I see him. The mad tramp is right there at the end of our row, watching. His hair, lifted by the wind, is held back by a grubby claw and he says nothing, only stares at me for a long moment before baring his teeth in a yellow grin.

      I’m frozen in place, staring back while he begins to move towards me, dropping a can into the gutter as if he wants both hands free…

      I clutch the door handle. If I go inside, he’ll know it’s where I live, but I’m scared to stay out here. He takes another step and stops dead. Someone is behind me.

      ‘Corinne?’

      I jump before I realise it’s Matt, my friend and near neighbour. I turn and get behind him, shaking my head.

      Matt steps forward and stares at the red-haired man who’s standing half in the gutter. ‘You want something?’ he asks.

      The tramp looks at him – slowly, up and down. He starts at Matt’s pointy leather boots and goes up all the way up to his blonde hair. His mouth curls open in a growl. Finally he spits out words: ‘Gotta message for that girl… Need to give it to her…’

      ‘Get lost,’ Matt tells him and leads me across the road to where he and Ben had been unloading their car.

      ‘Who the hell is that?’ he nods, but when we look back, the street is empty.

      ‘Thanks,’ I say.

      ‘Just being a good neighbour.’

      ‘Just getting out of helping me with this, you mean,’ Ben says.

      We look down at the thing they were unloading and Matt laughs. ‘What the hell is it anyway?’ I say.

      Ben sighs. ‘It is a statue of Pan,’ he explains. But to me it’s still just a weird sort of half-man-half-goat thing tootling away on some pipes.

      ‘Where are you putting it?’

      ‘Heaven knows,’ Ben says. ‘It’s a present from my sister. Probably stick it by the bath with a towel over its head.’

      ‘You didn’t make it to school then?’ Matt says to me, ignoring Ben. He nods at my uniform, then his watch, his pale eyes unblinking.

      ‘I meant to,’ I tell him.

      He sighs. ‘Come round anytime. I could give you a lift.’

      I look at my feet and nod. He’s not fooled.

      Mum and Dad don’t have many friends here. Nor do I. When you have someone like Sam threatening to burst in on things at any moment, you tend to keep yourself to yourself. Ben and Matt are different, though. They knew all there was to know from the start – from the first day they moved in.

      It was about a year ago and past midnight when I heard the hammering of fists on wood and Sam’s voice blaring into the night from across the street. I let Mum and Dad sleep and darted over to find him slumped on someone else’s doorstep with a cut on one eyebrow and tears on his face. The door opened and two men peered out, looking nervous.

      ‘It’s my brother,’ I said. ‘Sorry – he can’t help himself. We live over there, if you could just help…’

      I was shivering in my dressing gown and one slipper, as they looked from me to Sam and back again.

      ‘Is he violent?’ one asked. ‘If not, bring him in. I don’t think we can move him any further. Don’t worry about disturbing us, we haven’t gone to bed yet.’

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