Stones. Polly Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ just moved here,’ the one with fair hair said. ‘Not much unpacked.’

      Sam lay still on the red velvet as if he was dead; I sat with my two neighbours on the floor looking at him and tried to explain. I told them he was an alcoholic. I told them that even Mum and Dad were sometimes scared of him, and I told them I hated him. It poured out of me like water and they just sat there and took it all in. When I said sorry for the rubbish welcome to the neighbourhood, they smiled and one of them got up to offer me his hand, which seemed the thing to do. ‘Matt,’ he said, ‘and that’s Ben. Would you like some hot chocolate?’

      While we drank it, they told me a bit about themselves. They looked as different as cloud and sun. Matt was blonde and trendy with tattoos from shoulder to wrist, and Ben was dark and neatly dressed. Perhaps he saw me looking from one to the other, because he grinned and nodded at Matt. ‘I’m the sensible one,’ he said. ‘I work for a software company while Matt is all creative and arty.’

      ‘Graphic design,’ Matt said. ‘He’s just old and stuffy, take no notice.’

      I laughed. Ben must have been about thirty, but Matt wasn’t that much younger.

      ‘I don’t know why I stay with you, brat,’ Ben sniffed, but he didn’t mean it. They were so obviously happy together, they made me feel calm and safe.

      They brought Sam home the next morning and Mum and Dad were so embarrassed they insisted on cooking breakfast. After that they were often round, especially Matt. I think mum liked to talk to him, and so did I. Things would have been different if he’d been my big brother. It was Ben and Matt who looked after me the night Sam died – my body curled into the same old sofa. They were my first grown-up friends.

      I leave them to it now, fair head behind dark, carrying the weird statue inside – the same way they’d carried Sam that night we first met.

      Once they’ve gone, I scour the street for any sign of the red-haired man. There’s only his dropped can, still leaking orangey stuff into the drain, so I slip indoors and stand in silence while my heart stops thumping, then creep down the hall to spy on Mum. She’s in the shop. I can see her through the glass door, counting cash, brown eyes narrowed in a frown and her fluffy hair caught up in a tortoiseshell clip. She’s got really thin since Sam died. Her hipbones would make a supermodel envious. Sometimes Dad creeps up, puts his arms round her and takes hold of them like he wants to steer her off somewhere, but she mostly pushes him away as if she has something urgent to do elsewhere. Her name is Karen, but one night – just after Sam died – she said that ‘Karen’ was gone and she was someone else now. I think that may be true.

      I slip upstairs and take out the ‘Thought Diary’ I’m supposed to fill in for the psychologist – the ‘Shrink Woman’, as I call her. I open it and read:

      ‘Sam and I were friends once. He was my big brother who looked after me. Once he sat indoors and caught measles from me because he was drawing cartoons to keep me happy…’

      There isn’t any more. It didn’t help to write about that Sam. That Sam began to vanish as he grew up and I didn’t like the one that took his place. It was like a creepy movie where a demon possesses one person in a family and sucks the life out of all of them. He certainly drained me.

      Now, though, after meeting Joe, something is changing. Down inside, where I thought I was sleeping, something stirs. I’m not even sure if I like him yet, but I want him to like me. I write his name in the margin of a new page, then wonder why I did it, so I hide it away and lie in blue dimness on my bed. The curtains are drawn and the faint noise from outside plays a background tune to my thoughts. No one will come looking for me until at least four o’clock. I can just lie here and do nothing at all.

       3.

      Thought Diary: ‘Wakey-wakey eggs ’n’ bakey.’

      I wake with a jolt in the early hours. I’ve slept through the evening and the whole night too. I think for a minute that no one even missed me, but someone must have because I’m covered in a blanket. The worried feeling is there again, but today it only hovers, like an unsure guest. What gets me out of bed is the thought of Joe.

      The house is silent as I creep downstairs, making a little jump past the door to Sam’s room. The kitchen is temptingly warm, but I’m not hungry yet. I shove two croissants into a brown paper bag and let myself out into the cold morning.

      I like this empty time. The air is fresh, the sky streaked with the new morning, and despite what happened yesterday, I head for the beach. It’s my thinking place and no nutcase will keep me away. All the same, I go a different way and walk right along the shoreline, just in case.

      The air is full of seagulls squabbling over the tide’s edge, snatching bits of dead fish and jumping into the wind to escape with them. There’s a family out early with a brown puppy, a little girl screaming and laughing at the dog as it dares the breakers. Usually, I hate happy families, but today I smile. Perhaps this is progress; something to tell the Shrink Woman to shut her up.

      I leave them behind and walk until I’m halfway to The Mansion, then stop to look out across the grey water. It’s because the wind is in my ears and my mind’s far away that I don’t hear the scrunch of feet until they’re right behind me. I whirl round, remembering the red-headed man, slipping on the loose stones in panic. For a moment I think perhaps it’s Joe, but it’s not. I glimpse a dark coat and long hair and recognise him – the tramp with the pale face who saved me from the shouter. I turn back, heart thumping, waiting for him to go past, but he doesn’t. Instead he comes over to me and sits down right at my feet.

      ‘Hi,’ he says, but I don’t answer. I can feel him there and worse – I can smell him. It’s the stink that alcohol makes when people take it like food until it oozes out of their pores. A smell that makes me feel sick and afraid.

      Just down towards the water is a little pyramid of stones someone has left, and the man starts to pick up pebbles and lob them at it: chunk, chunk, chunk.

      ‘I wanted to say sorry,’ he says, ‘for what happened with Alec. He’s a mad bugger, but he shouldn’a done that. I notice people who come around and I see you lots, walking on your own. I told him to lay off.’

      Maybe it’s his voice, which is unexpectedly calm and gentle, but instead of walking away, I answer him as if he’s just a regular person.

      ‘Why do you notice?’ I say. ‘Don’t you have anything better to do?’

      He throws more pebbles. I can see his hand sticking out of a black coat sleeve – long, knotty fingers, dirty with an oily grime. Across his knuckles is tattooed ‘Lilyn’.

      I already know the answer to my question. Of course he doesn’t have anything better to do, because he’s a tramp; an alky that soaks himself in booze until he can’t stand up. He probably makes someone else’s life a misery too, unless he’s done the decent thing and disappeared. He stays quiet and I feel awkward, as if he can hear my thoughts.

      ‘Why are you always down here then?’ he asks. ‘Don’t you go to school? You gotta get an education.’

      I feel like laughing. ‘An education? Like you I suppose?’

      He doesn’t answer, just sends a big, grey stone crashing into the pyramid, tipping it sideways.

      ‘I СКАЧАТЬ