CHAPTERTEN
TRENT
The sofain the living room is old, the cushions full of so many unexpected bumps and crevices, I expect to have no problem staying awake all night.
Instead, I give a start when I sense someone in the room with me. According to the position of the moon, I’ve been asleep for hours. Some guard dog I make.
“Sorry,” Rosa whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Just needed a glass of water.”
“No worries.” I sit up, rubbing my face. “What time is it?”
“After three.” She hesitates in the doorway. “You want some aspirin or something?”
“Panadol if you have it,” I ask, though I’m still so sluggish that if I lay back down, I’d fall straight into slumber again, no pain signals allowed. “Did something wake you?”
“No. I’ve just been reading.”
There’s a glint of silver from near her hand and as she turns, I make out the shape of a knife. “I hope that’s not for me.”
“It’s just—” She falters, and I shift my weight on the sofa, stretching.
The half dozen aches and pains that report back are evenly split between my rugby practice earlier and my skirmish with the intruder.
She barks out a short laugh, devoid of humour. “This is my talisman for warding off evil, don’t you know.”
“What is it?”
“A butter knife.” She laughs again, this time warmer. “I couldn’t take something sharp into bed with me in case I fell asleep and rolled on top of it.”
“Yeah. That’d be a hard story to sell to the police. Woman stabs self.”
She passes through to the kitchen, returning a minute later sans knife, with a glass of water in each hand and a packet of paracetamol clutched in her right palm, something she passes to me once she’s put the glasses on the coffee table.
“I’m sorry for earlier.” Her voice is softer, warmer than before. “When I’m worried, I need everything to be as normal as possible. Otherwise, I get mountains of anxiety, and I…” Her words dissolve and she shakes her head.
“There’s no need to explain yourself. You want to sit and talk for a while?”
“You wouldn’t rather sleep?”
I swallow the pills and lie down on the sofa again, gesturing her towards me. “Come here and keep me warm. If you bore me enough, I will.”
At first, I think she’s going to refuse, then she slowly moves into position beside me, awkward like she’s trying not to touch. I wrap my arms around her, pinning her against me, to override that urge and instantly think it’s a mistake.
But I hug girls all the time, at least once a day at school, and it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t feel dangerous… but this does. This does but I can’t make myself let go.
“That’s better,” I tell her, ignoring a thousand klaxons sounding their strident alarms. “Is the useless knife within reach?”
“No. I’ll have to wield you instead.”
The thought of her moving me at all makes me chuckle. She’s tiny against me, her soft hair tickling my cheek. I stroke it back, nuzzling into the warmth of her neck like my nose is a heat-seeking missile. “Did the guy hurt your mum?” I ask, now I’ve got her trapped.
“He hurt a lot of people,” she says, obfuscating again.
From her tension alone, I understand one of those people was her, but I don’t press for clarification. Her muscles are already frozen. The wrong word pressing on the wrong nerve will make her shatter. “And there were loads of different charges. His sentence added up to over twenty-three years. I don’t understand what he’s doing out already.”
Her body stiffens further as she talks, and I loosen my grip so she doesn’t feel restrained. “How old is he?”
“Early fifties, I guess. A bit older.”
