Page 92 of Queen of Nothing

Oliver waits for me to pass, with a face like stone, a mask moulded for the audience around us.

He plays his role.

I understand that.

But I don’t understand him.

I turn a dark, watery look on Dray.

Unflinching, he just stares back at me.

He waits for me to pass—and I’m being herded to the lane.

And there is another man at the end of the lane.

One I don’t recognise.

The man turns his back on us and, with his broad shoulders set, he leads the way around the corner of the building.

We pass the rows of shop windows below the loft, then onto the street, across the road, and around the corner onto another narrower street.

A pair of sleek sedans with blacked-out windows idle quietly on the side of the road.

Rentals.

BMWs.

Not a car brand I would have considered luxurious back in my days of wealth.

It’s luxury for the middle class.

But now, as the red-headed man who is a stranger to me pulls open the car door, and I fumble into the backseat, the smell of leather floods my nostrils and it’s nostalgic.

It’s an echo of luxury.

I’ve spent so long in rusty cars and mouldy motels, it’s ruined my taste.

Before I can scoot over to the other door, it opens, and Oliver slips onto the seat.

Father sits to my left.

Mr Younge takes the passenger seat.

I don’t know who the driver is. I don’t recognise the glimpse of his face I can make out in the rearview mirror.

But I do know the car is full.

James, Dray and the red-headed man take the other car.

But just because Dray isn’t in this car, and Mr Younge is in the passenger seat, doesn’t mean my family speak to me.

I am flanked by silent, tense statues.

For the drive out of town, and a while longer, I stay quiet. I keep my head down. Hands wringing on my lap. Nails cutting into my skin.

I weep.

Quietly.