Sunshine at the Comfort Food Cafe. Debbie Johnson
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Название: Sunshine at the Comfort Food Cafe
Автор: Debbie Johnson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Контркультура
isbn: 9780008263744
isbn:
Over the years, though, I’ve thought of it occasionally – the way that kids can be so casually cruel to each other and not give it a second thought.
And, of course, the way I ran away, frightened out of my wits – I didn’t even talk to the poor boy in the room, who was just as scared. Who wouldn’t be? Some strange, feral child crashes into your space uninvited, screams at the top of her voice, and legs it without a word of explanation?
I think I scarred him for life – and as he was living in a children’s home at the time, he probably wasn’t in an especially good place to begin with. We were just two people who collided with each other’s lives for a split second. I still feel a bit bad about it, and wish I could go back in a time machine and at least push a note under his door saying sorry.
I force myself to stop procrastinating and open the door. Amazingly, nothing happens. No ghostly boys, no hanging corpses, no demons. Not even a whiff of the scary choir music from The Omen. It’s just a room – dark, musty, and sad.
The desk I remember, covered in what I now think was probably dismantled computer parts or reverse-engineered toasters, has gone. The swivel-chair the boy spun around in has gone. There’s nothing left here to tell me anything about the living, breathing children who once called this small place home.
I can feel the melancholy creeping back over me again, and shake it off. Nostalgia’s not what it used to be, and I’m probably not well-equipped to deal with thinking too closely about the past. I struggle enough to cope with the present.
I wander over to the window, preparing to open it like I did all the others, and stop dead. Hazily outlined through the grime, I see a person standing outside. He’s very still, looking up, probably thinking exactly the same thing as me: am I imagining this, or is there another human being out here in the land that time forgot?
I freeze for a moment, suddenly scared, and then use one of my cloths to wipe a circle of dirt from the window pane.
No, I’m not imagining it – it’s a man. A tall man with dark hair, and a bloody big dog. I wave at him, and he hesitantly waves back. He can probably only see one bit of my face, which must look weird.
The dog lets out a vast booming woof, and I hear Bella’s claws clattering on the floorboards in the hallway as she mobilises.
I follow her, fingering my mobile in my apron pocket for reassurance as I go. I generally don’t go through life assuming new people I meet are serial killers – but Briarwood has cast its unnerving spell, and it’s good to know I can communicate with the outside world if he suddenly wants to show me his stylish coat made of human skin.
I trot down the stairs, bundling up my bin bag as I go. Bella is ahead of me, her tail twitching in excitement. I am totally rocking the Cinderella look – face smeared with dirt, hair in a big mad pony, wearing a pinny that has a picture of King Kong on the front, odd socks popping out of the top of my Docs. Because life’s too short for worrying about your socks.
I emerge into the sunshine, and have to blink away the sudden blast of light that attacks my indoor eyeballs.
It’s been a surreal day. No sleep, domestic chaos, cleaning a haunted house, and now I’m standing out here, smiling at a man who definitely isn’t Edward Cullen.
Obviously, I knew that. Edward Cullen is a fictional character. This man, I assume, is not.
He’s tall – a head higher than me, and I’m five-foot-ten – and he’s wearing faded Levis and a T-shirt with Godzilla on it. The old black-and-white Godzilla, not the less-scary CGI Godzillas of the current era. His feet are bare – life is obviously too short for worrying about socks for him as well – and shoved into a pair of well-worn Converse with trailing, untied laces.
His hair is shorn close to his head, like he’s either just left a super-secret post in the military or he knows from bitter experience that he’ll end up with a huge ’fro if he lets it grow out. It looks soft and dark, like moleskin, and I know that I might need to fight the urge to stroke it. Because that would be weird for us both.
He’s slender, but with broad shoulders and muscled arms that I’m guessing were created in a gym – he’s too pale to be an outdoorsman. Dark brown eyes, strong cheekbones and jaw, a nose that veers on the right side of Roman, a wide mouth. Beautiful, actually, in a you-could-use-him-as-a-sculpture-model kind of way. I see that the siren call of Budbury has resulted in yet another weird-but-well-built male responding to its pagan appeal.
‘Hi!’ I say, as I approach. For all I know he’s worried that I’m a serial killer too. My appearance can be a little alarming to people I catch unawares. ‘I’m Willow.’
He’s not really focused on me, I realise as I get closer – he’s staring at Bella, who has taken a few steps towards his dog, sniffed the air, and circled back to me. He has hold of his own pet’s collar, and is looking anxious about the whole situation.
‘Okay …’ he replies, nervously. ‘Any chance you could ask the dog to go back inside? Rick Grimes isn’t too keen on company.’
Rick Grimes looks like a cross between a Rottweiler and a German Shepherd, with a face like a teddy bear, a hugely muscled body and a weird black-and-tan ruffle of fur around his neck, like a lion’s mane. He’s tugging slightly at his owner’s hold, but not growling or snarling. Yet.
‘You named your dog after a character in a TV show about zombies?’ I ask, stepping in front of Bella protectively. I’m not overly worried – something about Bella gives off super-sexy vibes that generally ensure all male dogs adore her, the little tramp – but am ready to scoot her inside if I need to.
He looks up at me, and grins. It changes his whole face, and something inside me melts a little. Danger, danger – hot geek alert.
‘I did,’ he says, stroking Rick’s ears to soothe him as he talks. ‘Why? What’s your dog called?’
Hmmm. Fair question.
‘Erm … Bella Swan,’ I reply, feeling myself wilt a little. Not everybody gets the reference – but I am a hundred percent sure this guy will.
‘Ah,’ he says, his face creasing in amusement. ‘Yes. That’s a much more sensible name for a dog. If she had a puppy, would you call it Renesmee?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I answer. ‘That’s a stupid name for a dog.’
‘Or a baby.’
‘Yes, or a baby. I don’t know what they were thinking … Rick Grimes looks like he’s calmed down a bit now. Do you want to risk an introduction? Honestly, Bella’s a bit of a femme fatale in the canine world. I’ve seen her tame the world’s snarliest beasts with just one look. And she can run really fast when she wants to.’
I see him go through the possible outcomes in his mind: Rick falls in love with Bella and they live happily ever after creating puppies that СКАЧАТЬ