Num8ers - By Rachel Ward Page 0,67
a cop’s house for the night.
“Won’t anyone come in here?” I asked.
She smiled. “No, they wouldn’t dare. One: I’ve told them not to. And two: They’re scared what they’d find. Not that they would find anything: no drugs, no condoms, no pills, not even cigarettes. Just me. P’raps that’s what they’re scared of. They don’t really get teenagers, my mum and dad. You could stay, see, you’d be perfectly safe.”
It was almost like she was pleading with me. She didn’t seem to understand that she was the powerful one here. My safety was held by a little silver thread, a cobweb. She wouldn’t have to cut it, just blow and it would stretch and break. She only had to raise her voice and shout to her mum and it was all over for me.
“What about your brother?”
“Oh…no. He died last year.”
Me and my big mouth.
“I’m sorry. I just saw the photos. Sorry.”
“It’s OK. You wouldn’t know, would you?”
Well, I thought, the bald head might have given me a clue.
She was busying herself sorting out blankets and pillows.
“How long is it since you slept in a bed?” she asked.
I had to think hard. “Three nights.” The warmth from the shower, the sheer luxury of being inside had softened me up. I couldn’t face going out into the dark and the cold. Not tonight.
“You sleep there, then. I’ll be alright down here.”
She got down on the beanbag and started to wrap the blanket ’round her.
“Don’t be so soft. It’s your room. I couldn’t.”
“ ’Course you could. You need some sleep. Some proper sleep.”
“No, I couldn’t. It’s not right. I’d rather go than kick you out of your own bed. I mean it.”
“OK, then.” She struggled up and climbed into bed, and I curled up in the beanbag, instantly regretting it. It was bloody uncomfortable.
Britney turned off the lights.
“Night, Britney,” I said.
“Night, Jem.”
Waves of tiredness and nausea were sweeping through me. I was scared of being sick again. The events of the day were filling my head — this morning I’d woken up with Spider’s arms ’round me. It seemed like years ago. It was too much to deal with.
The streetlight filtered through Britney’s thin curtains, and I lay awkwardly, eyes wide open, taking in the room. What would it be like to be this girl? To have a mum and a dad, a cool bedroom, friends to hang out with? And a dead brother. However cozy things seemed, the facts of life were the same. You couldn’t escape death: It would get us all in the end. Which brought me back to Spider. Where was he now? Lying there, I ached just to know he was OK. I ached to be with him.
Somewhere in the room, an alarm clock was ticking steadily away — the noise filled the room, each tick a hammer blow to my head. Three days to go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I lay awake in the soft gloom of Britney’s room. Britney, curled up on her bed, had her eyes closed. She was breathing evenly, but I couldn’t tell if she was asleep or not. I was exhausted, but wide-awake. I didn’t want to bother her, but it was pretty much torture lying there.
After about fifteen minutes, I was relieved to hear her voice, a soft whisper in the dark.
“You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“Me, too.”
“I just can’t sleep.”
“Look, get in here. Put your pillow down that end — we can top and tail.”
There was no way I was going to get any sleep on that beanbag, so I did as she said, gratefully tucking in, curling up my legs so as not to take up too much space. A few days ago, I’d never have done this, got into bed with a stranger, but now it felt OK; OK to be close to someone; OK to trust them.
“I used to do this with my brother, when we were little — top and tail, and my mum would read us a story. You got any family?”
“I live with my foster mum and two little boys, twins.”
“What’s she like? Your foster mum?”
Straightaway, the words shot out — sheer reflex. “Karen? She’s a bitch.”
“Yeah?”
Then, just for a minute, I thought about Karen. What was she actually like?
“Well, I suppose she’s not a bitch. She’s been pretty kind to me, tried to help. Except…it wasn’t the kind of help I wanted. She doesn’t get me, doesn’t understand.”
In the soft darkness, Britney nodded in agreement. “Tell me about it. I don’t think my parents were ever young — I think