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Authors: Cassandra Parkin

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BOOK: The Summer We All Ran Away
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“Sorry, it's called
what?”

“Crip-Boy and Enabler-Girl
. The hero's a guy in a wheelchair. Enabler-Girl's his carer, and also his girlfriend.”

“Oh my God!” Davey was horrified. “You can't write that!”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because - ” His disgust was so huge he couldn't find the words to express it. “Because it's awful!”

She was walking backwards so she could hold him with her stare.

“How do you know it's awful?”

“You can't call someone in a wheelchair
Crip-Boy!”

“'Course we can. It's a deliberately provocative title, it's meant to make you feel uncomfortable. It's playing with assumptions about disabled people, like, reclaiming the insult.”

“But you're not disabled!”

“So?”

“But do you even know any disabled people?”

“Do you?”

As it happened, he didn't.

“And,” she said triumphantly, “you haven't even read it! You're making all these assumptions without even
reading
it! You've got a problem with graphic novels, haven't you? You fuckin' intellectual snob.”

“I am
not
an intellectual snob!”

“Then tell me what's wrong with that library.” She jabbed a thumb in the direction of the house.

“How can there be anything wrong with a library?”

“It's lopsided. No Moore, no Miller, no Morrison, no Gaiman, and nothing after nineteen eighty.” Her accent was becoming stronger. “I wasn't even
born
in nineteen eighty.”

Her arrogance took his breath away.

“So?
There's at least - ” he did a quick calculation in his head “ - at least three thousand years of literature in there! That should be enough for anybody. Even - ” He stopped and
bit his lip.

She laughed in triumph.

“Even a thick little Scally wid no fuckin' clue about anyt' in'?”

“I didn't
mean
that, I just - ”

“I bet you went to an all-boys school, didn't you? And it cost thousands of pounds a term? And about, like, eighty-five per cent of youse go to Oxford or Cambridge? Am I, like, the first
poor
person you've ever met?”

“That's c-c-c-c-completely unfair, I d-d-d - ”

“Despise people like me? Don't want to admit I've gorra point? Didn't know poor people could read? Did me mam round the back of the chip shop?” She laughed. “Do you always stammer when you feel guilty?”

His tongue finally unlocked and sprang free.

“Just fuck off, Priss!” he roared, then stopped, appalled at himself.

As if he'd given her a present, she beamed at him and took him by the hand.

“That's more like it. You're not so bad, you know. For a posh lad who's soft in the head.” She dragged him up to the brow of the hill. “Now, look at
that
, and tell me it's not the most fucked-up thing you've ever seen in your entire life.”

Together, they stared down into the hollowed-out concrete-lined lair. The iron gate had rusted half-open across the entrance.

Dear Mum,

How are you? I'm really well, I've found somewhere to live and

So, I thought it might be a good idea if I moved out on my own for a while

I couldn't stay any longer, I'm sorry, but I just couldn't

I just wanted to let you know I'm alright

Oh God. I can't do this. I'm sorry.

Love Davey.

chapter four (then)

From the edge of the lawn, Jack and Mathilda watched Alan get rid of the party. His pink shirt blazed out like a beacon as he snarled at the retreating waves of guests. Jack watched in fascination. He'd had no idea that so many people had come in the first place.

“Do you know all these people?” asked Mathilda.

“Some of them. What's so funny?”

“Don't you think it's strange to invite people you don't know?”

“Hey, no business like show business. Actually, I think it's ridiculous. I moved out here to get away from all that crap.”

Jeff and Jane were pointing at the stars and laughing like maniacs. Alan shoved Jeff crossly into the back of his car, climbed into the driver's seat, and drove off into the night.

“He's one of the nastiest men I've ever met,” said Mathilda thoughtfully.

“Alan? He's not so bad.”

“Yes, he is.”

“He's good at fixing things.”

“He's a bully.” Mathilda said this as if there was no possibility of argument. Jack felt he should defend Alan, but couldn't think of anything to say. The panther was roaring again. Mathilda looked over her shoulder. “Does he need feeding or something?”

“I fed him earlier. He's just angry.”

“I don't blame him. Can you imagine how frustrating it
must be, being locked up all the time?”

“I can hardly let him out.”

“Don't you think the world would be more exciting with the odd panther wandering around in it? They say there are already big cats living wild around here. He could start a family.”

“Why are you so keen on him? He could have killed you.”

“But he didn't.”

“But he could have.”

“But he
didn't
. He was just doing what he's meant to do.”

“Weren't you scared?”

She shrugged. “Of course I was.”

“But you still did it.”

“Don't you ever do things you're scared of?”

Jack felt his throat tighten up. “I used to. Not any more.”

“Why not?”

A thin breeze was blowing through the trees. He saw her shiver.

“Let's go inside.”

“Are you avoiding the subject?”

“Yes. No. Yes. Probably. Look, it's getting cold and my panther ripped your dress up. I think going inside is the reasonable thing to do.”

She laughed. “That's because you didn't see what they were all doing in there.”

He took her hand and led her to the bright kitchen.

“This place is a wreck,” said Mathilda severely, picking her way over shards of glass. “Were they throwing these at the walls?”

“I knew there was a reason I never have parties.” He pulled her towards him and laid his mouth over hers. The taste made him feel as if he was falling into deep water. Her hum of pleasure vibrated in his belly. Then she moved away.

“We ought to clean up.”

“What, right now?”

“Do you want to come downstairs tomorrow and stand on it?”

He imagined the glass piercing her pale foot. “Okay, but don't you do it, I will.”

“Let's do it together. Where's the brush?”

They rummaged through cupboards, Mathilda amused by his total bewilderment in his own kitchen. He found a dustpan and brush beneath the sink, exclaimed in triumph, and turned around to find Mathilda right behind him. He had to lean against the sink to stop himself from touching her.

“Here,” he said, holding them up like weapons.

“Well done.” She took them out of his hand.

“No, no - ”

“Yes. I'm going to sweep up. You're going to tell me about yourself.”

“I'd rather talk about you.”

“Is that you trying to make me think you're a nice guy?”

He watched the flex of the long muscles in her legs as she knelt gingerly and picked up the larger pieces. The sink was cold against his back. Her features were strong and distinctive, far above the commonplace of
pretty
. She would dominate any stage all by herself, she filled the room.

“What part would you most like to play?”

“Hamlet.”

“Really?” He swallowed the obvious objection. “Why?”

“Hamlet's the part every actor wants to play,” she said, pushing her hair out of the way. “It's like, I don't know, playing Wembley for musicians. My God, if you asked Peter Sellers what part he'd most like to play if he could.”

“But why?” he persisted. She looked at him severely. “I'm just curious.”

“I used to know this bloke,” she said, still sweeping glass into the dustpan. “He said you find in Hamlet whatever you bring to it. If you've just broken up with someone, you'll think it's about Hamlet's relationship with Ophelia. Girls think it was Hamlet's fault for being pushy, and boys think it was Ophelia's fault for not putting out. If you don't get on with your mum, you'll think it's all about Gertrude; if you don't
get on with your dad, you'll pick Claudius. Public schoolboys with a classical education think it's about the inexorability of Fate. Angry young men think it's a rant against the class system and the expectations imposed on us by our parents - ”

Boldly, he sat beside her and took the brush away so he could cradle her hand in his.

“What do you think?”

“I think it's about how it's easy to get trapped in a part you're playing. He starts off pretending to be mad, thinking that'll help him, but by the end - ” she shrugged. “What do you think Hamlet's about? I'm presuming you know it.”

He offered a silent prayer of thanks for the now-defunct privilege of a grammar school education. “I read it at school, when I was about fifteen. I thought he needed therapy. Who plans to kill people because a ghost tells you to?”

“But the ghost was right.”

“So? He saw his dead father walk through the wall. That's no basis for a decision, is it?” Her eyes were fixed on his face. “So you think Hamlet's about someone who's mentally unstable?”

“I, did I - shit!” He laughed. “Did I just confess to being mentally unstable?”

“I told you we were going to talk about you.”

“You did. I just thought I'd managed to divert you, shit. I was hoping to save my tortured-genius story for the second date.”

“Would you call this a date?”

He flushed, but saw that she was smiling too. “What would you call it?” he asked, stroking her palm.

She gave this some serious consideration. Jack brushed his lips tentatively over her fingers.

“I don't know,” she said at last. “Getting to know each other. Would that cover it?”

It was hard to know how to touch her. Dressed only in her knickers and Alan's green jacket, she was so close to naked that touching her anywhere seemed an invasion.

“So, um, do we need to do any more cleaning now, or do you think oh, Jesus - ” She slipped a cool hand beneath the waistband of his jeans and squeezed; Jack staggered and clutched at the edge of the sink. “Oh - ” She took one of his hands and pressed it hard between her thighs. “Jesus, Mathilda, that's absolutely beautiful - ” He slid the jacket off her shoulders, kissing the exposed skin. The sink pressed coldly against his back. “This is crazy, I've got seventeen bedrooms, we don't have to do this in the kitchen - ”

“There aren't any clean beds.”

“How mmm, oh God, how do you know?”

“There were people in every single bedroom when I looked earlier - yes, just there - ”

“There's one they won't have found - ”

“Jack, are you ever coming to, oh!”

Evie stood in the doorway, her frock immaculate, her hair brushed and pretty, her brown eyes wide with surprise. He let go of Mathilda, guilty and annoyed with himself for feeling guilty. He'd forgotten Evie was even in the house.

“I thought you'd gone to bed,” he said.

The look on Evie's face was hard to read. He could see he was missing something important, but couldn't work out what. Then, Evie suddenly smiled brilliantly at Mathilda.

“It's a good thing I'm not the jealous type, or I'd be scratching your eyes out. It's alright, don't feel bad, I'm used to it. No, really, it's okay you weren't to know. Why don't I find you a dress and I'll see you to your car?”

“But she's
staying
- ” began Jack, furious.

“No, I'm not,” said Mathilda, and shook off Jack's hand. “Sorry,” she said to Evie, “I didn't realise.”

“Didn't realise what?”

“That you really are Jack Laker,” said Mathilda. “Seventeen bedrooms? Is that so you don't have to change the sheets in between?”

The scorn in her face was hard to look at.

“Oh, my God no, no, no look I wasn't, Evie isn't - ”

Mathilda was already halfway out of the kitchen. Evie turned to watch her leave. Jack shoved her aside and ran after Mathilda.

“Please stay,” he begged.

“I don't think so.”

“Look, Evie's just staying with me for a bit - ”

Mathilda shook his hand off her arm. “Please don't touch me.”

“She's no-one important - ”

Her eyes blazed. “I said
please don't touch me!”
She stalked down the hallway and out onto the gravel.

“But she's not my girlfriend!” Jack yelled. “Why won't anyone believe me?”

But Mathilda was already gone.

Jack scrabbled madly through the bowl for the keys to his Jaguar. The roads were narrow, but if he was quick and not too careful on the corners -

“Don't you dare go after her!” Evie snatched the keys from his hand and threw them against the wall.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Looking after you.”

“I, what? I don't need looking after! And while we're at it, how dare you imply to Mathilda that - ”

“How dare
you
speak to me like that!” Her face was white and furious. “How could you, with that girl?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“What business?” Evie's eyes were burning bright. “How can you ask?”

“Because we're not a couple!”

Evie slapped his face. Jack looked at her blankly.

“What was that for?”

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. But, what you - ” her anger was dissolving into tears. “What you said, that was a horrible thing to say, why would you say that?”

“But I'm just telling the truth! I've never said I love you, I've never said we were an item - ”

“So what the hell is this, then, if not a relationship? Me living in your house? Cooking your meals? Organising your parties? Phoning up your bloody manager, having him turn the air blue, then sweet-talking him into coming to see you? What does that make me, if not your bloody girlfriend?”

“But look, Evie I don't, you don't - ” He had no idea where the sentence was going.

“Look, I don't expect you to be a saint,” she said. “I know what it's like when you're out on the road. I know you're not going to be, you know faithful. I mean, all those girls, throwing themselves at you. What man wouldn't? And I'll live with that, I swear I will. I'll never even have to know for sure. Just be discreet, and come home to me afterwards.” She tried to smile. “And just - not under our actual roof, you know?”

“This is insane.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't love you!”

“But I love you. You know that. I always have. We're good together, we'll make it work, I know we will.”

He thought about taking her hand, then decided against it. “Listen to what you're saying. This isn't how real people live!”

“Real people?” Evie snorted. “How's your life ever going to be
real
, Jack? You're not a person any more, you're a commodity. Do you think that girl wanted anything more than a notch on the bloody bedpost?” Her nose was running. She wiped it furiously with her hand. “All she wants is to brag about screwing Jack Laker, so she can get her name in the papers.”

“She didn't even know who I was!”

“Of course she sodding well knew!” sobbed Evie. “She's an actress, you idiot.”

Her words soaked through his skin, turning his bones to lead.

“It doesn't matter,” he said at last.

“What doesn't matter?”

“I don't care if she did just want the notch on the bedpost,” he said. “I don't care if she wanted publicity. It doesn't change how I feel. I saw her in the garden and - ”

“And?”

“I think I fell in love with her. I'm sorry,” he added weakly.

“You're
sorry?
And you
love
her? That's what you've got?”

“It's what I feel.”

She stared at him. “Okay.”

“Really?” He couldn't believe it was going to be this easy. Guilt prickled at his joints. “And you're sure you're okay about this?”

“I understand. You need to get her out of your system. Fine. I'll get out of the way for a while.”

He rediscovered his anger. “Because I've got any fucking chance at all with her after what you just did.”

“Oh, she'll come back,” said Evie unexpectedly. “Don't look like that, it's not a good thing. She'll come back, and she'll use you to get what she wants, and then she'll walk out on you and you'll fall apart and all the work you've done will go down the pan.”

He felt his hand coming up to, to what? To
hit
her? Jesus, no, he forced it back down to his side. “Don't say that. Please. Why would you say that?”

“You'll see. Is it alright if I borrow your car?”

The prickles of guilt were becoming needles. “You don't need to go tonight.”

“No, it's alright.” Her smile was worse than any accusation she could have thrown at him. “I'll go to my parents.”

BOOK: The Summer We All Ran Away
7.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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