Echoes. Laura Dockrill

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ thought they’d be. She bit her lip and got down to her knees. It was dark and beginning to rain, the wind blew her hair about. She turned her handbag upside down. The wind targeted its contents, attacking the loose receipts and scrappy papers. No keys. ‘No fucking way.’

      She looked around the doorstep for a key: under the doormat, behind the plant pot, in the letterbox. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She couldn’t go back. How humiliating. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She kicked the wall. FUCK. Ouch, fuck, bollocks.

      She looked through the window and could just make out the living room, the remote control, the mirror, the candlesticks, the dining room table, the alarm beeper signalling every fifteen seconds. FUCK. The rain began to pellet down in heavy, thick strokes; it was difficult to breathe, difficult to keep her eyes open, impossible to get out her mobile phone.

      Then she remembered Barnaby at number sixty-seven. Excellent. At least he might be able to give her some tea, then she could order a taxi, or he might even have a spare key to the cottage. Right. On she went, her suitcase crackling behind her, sloshing in the gutter where the rain had almost begun to rise.

      Doof, doof, she fisted the door of number sixty-seven, her mitten punching the door in heavy clods. Silence. FUCK. She tutted. ‘What a shitty day.’ Again: DOOF, DOOF. Nothing. She checked her mobile phone. Could ring Mum, break into the cottage, ask her for the code. But she was in a bad mood, she wasn’t supposed to be here in Cornwall, she’d worry, tell the police, get that smelly woman from the teashop to chaperone her home to London. Noway. DOOF DOOF. Still nothing. Great. She would find a hotel. It was getting late. Then, all of a sudden a light came on, it was like a flicker at the end of a dark tunnel, warm, glowing and phew. The door latch clicked open and released. It was a guy, a handsome one too, about the same age as her.

      ‘Hello?’ he asked.

      ‘Hi. I was, erm, looking for Barnaby.’

      ‘Oh yeah, right. Barns ain’t ’ere.’

      ‘Oh.’ Isabella smiled politely, fake, ridged and difficult. ‘I thought he…sorry, okay. Thanks.’

      ‘That’s a big suitcase you’ve got; you come far?’ he asked, opening the door further. A sticky, sweet smell swam out of the door; the scruffy hallway was on display, a guitar, shoes, and a surfboard. Weed. Druggies. Just what she needed.

      ‘Yes, London, but, it erm…’

      ‘Yeah, we just rent the place off Barns, he lives a few miles away now, got into that property development and we work for ’im. S’all right. Do you want to come in for a cuppa?’

      ‘No, I…’ she started to protest and then a gush of relief blew out of her like a normal breath after a coughing fit. She was tired and could not refuse some warmth. Besides, her hair now sat in dreaded clumps like dripping icicles, her mascara was bleeding down her face, rainwater-sodden, her tiny shoes, water everywhere, overflowing out of the backs of her heels. It was impossible to argue.

      ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

      Inside the house were three other boys. Two were playing a game that Isabella just could not grasp the name of–it was pronounced in a heavy Cornish groan, ‘Cul-a-Jooty.’

      The boy who’d answered the door left Isabella in the living room saying, ‘This is J and this is Paulie, Boys, this is…’

      ‘Isabella,’ she answered sheepishly.

      ‘Isabella. That over there is Bill, his real name’s Ollie but he can’t olly, can’t skate for shit, but he can bill-up…get it? As in, rolling up, s’ank like that.’

      Bill was tugging at a bong that gargled in his hands, his head covered in a spread of gingery dreadlocks, his jeans scruffy with band names scribbled over them in heavy black marker, a hoodie with Dr Dre on it. ‘’S’up.’ He acknowledged Isabella and sat up straighter, offering her the bong.

      ‘No, thanks.’ She waved her hand and sat down, awkward, not wanting the material on her clothing to settle on the surface. The room was not how she remembered it when it was Barnaby’s living room. It was now a dark, dingy pit, the only light being the blue hypnotic flash of the Cul-a-Jooty which entailed lots of shooting. Stacks of cassettes, CDs, vinyl and video games were piled from floor to ceiling. On the walls, over the once flowered wallpaper were scraggy sun-stained posters of Carmen Elektra, Eminem, Snoop Dogg. On the shelves where Barnaby’s football trophies used to sit were funny ornaments and figurines, a mini Batman and Robin and a Rubik’s Cube. It was like a big kid’s room. The main noise, apart from the occasional burp or grizzle was from the stereo in the corner.

      ‘Do you like RATM?’ the door opener who had now revealed himself as Stoo asked, as he passed her a cup of tea.

      ‘Excuse me?’ Isabella asked.

      ‘Rage Against The Machine?’

      ‘I err…’

      ‘Hungry?’ She was but she lied and instead suffered, watching him plough his way through eight mattresses of buttery toast, the smell mortifyingly tempting. He then sank his hot tea in one courageous gulp. ‘So, like, what, like, happened?’

      An hour later, the shooting noises mixed in with the whiny scruff of rappers began splitting holes in Isabella’s head like a woodpecker. She was getting really tired. How the fuck did she end up here? In this dump? With these chavs. Ugh.

      ‘Can I?’ She held her forefingers out like a small set of scissors to encourage Paulie to pass her a joint. She smoked weed the same way you’d imagine a nun would.

      ‘Insane,’ she boasted, trying to fit in.

      The floor beneath her was covered in porn magazines, dirty plates with sealed splodges of dried-up ketchup and corners of toast.

      ‘So like, do you wanna sleep over and that?’ Stoo asked.

      ‘Sorry…shit,’ she said. Where had the day gone? She was licked. She did not expect to be sleeping the night with tramps in Cornwall, stoned and helpless.

      ‘I guess so. That okay?’ Isabella shrugged. She knew it would be, like it made a difference, there could have been people sleeping, fucking, lawnmowering in the kitchen sink and nobody would have batted an eye.

      ‘So, like, whass your mum and dad do?’ Paulie asked. Paulie was a John Travolta lookalike. Well, John Travolta aged…say nineteen. He could have done that as a profession.

      ‘My mum works for a charity and my dad is a…I don’t actually know what he does.’

      ‘Sceen.’ He accepted that.

      ‘What about yours?’ she asked, trying to be curious, but she didn’t care, she was just being polite.

      ‘My dad’s a librarian and my mum is a slag,’ he said, simultaneously shooting a sea of enemies.

      ‘Oh,’ Isabella smirked.

      ‘So, you’re rich then?’ J asked from across the room.

      ‘Why do you say that?’ Isabella asked.

      ‘Well, look at you, your phone, your bag, your stuff, your way.’

СКАЧАТЬ