Coombe's Wood by Lisa Hinsley Page A

the individual parts when Feathers walked into the building.
    “Need some help?”
    “God, yes,” Izzy said. “How could he tell them to leave the bed here?” She tutted, hands on hips. “Why not have them leave it upstairs?”
    “Doesn’t matter,” Feathers said, and grabbed the edge. “I’ll give you a hand. Come on, grab the other side.”
    They manhandled it onto the landing at the top of the stairs, panting from the exertion. With the frame balanced between them, they rested for a minute to catch their breath. A large bluebottle flew up through the stairwell, dipping and diving. It whizzed past her face, so close she felt a breeze.
    “Blame the pig farm over the next field.” Feathers followed its flight. “They breed them as a by-product.”
    “But it’s huge – what are they feeding on? It’s … like, a bumblebee sized poo-eater!”
    She pointed as it buzzed past Feathers.
    “I never knew flies could be as loud as helicopters.” She grinned, and then swished at the bluebottle as it returned and got tangled in one of her dark curls. Without any warning, a pale hand flashed past Izzy.
    Her instinct was to duck. She was quicker than the hand, and jerked away.
    She dropped her side of the frame onto the ceramic tiles of the hall. The bed landed with a sharp wooden thunk, and caught Feathers’ feet as it fell flat. He let out a yelp of surprise. She backed up, three quick steps into a corner, collapsed onto the floor, one arm thrust up to cover her face.
    Feathers also fell to the floor and sat there rubbing his feet, his blue eyes turning to water.
    She watched him, over the arm. Slowly, she began to control the tension.
    “Sorry,” she whispered.
    She hadn’t told Feathers much abou t her arrival at the council flats. She’d only said she was a single Mum and she deserved the flat. She’d dropped in a question about who he’d slept with to land a flat, being male and single, he’d smiled and said he didn’t want to say, and the topic had been dropped.
    “Why did you do that?” His voice low.
    “I’m sorry,” she repeated.
    “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “There’s no need to be afraid now.”
    Feathers jumped to his feet, and came over, holding a hand out. She stood up, turned her face away, tears brimming, and pressed back into the corner.
    Slowly, Feathers raised a hand to her cheek. For a second he touched her, his fingers like a breeze on her skin. Then he withdrew, as if he’d burnt his fingertips. As swiftly as he’d swatted at the fly, Feathers turned and wiped his sleeve across his face.
    After a few seconds, he leaned over to pick up the fallen bed.
    “Shall we?” he asked, blinking.
     

 
     

    A creeping chill from the balcony tiles pulled Izzy from her recollections. She curled her toes and pulled the sides of her cardigan around her body. The image of Feathers, distressed, a damp smear across his cheek stuck in her mind. She could almost believe he cared.
    The trees shook with a chill wind that swept out of the woods, and past the flats where it brushed against Izzy, laden with a musky scent. She filled her lungs with the breeze, trying to clear her mind of George, when Feathers bumped against her. For a few seconds, she froze, uncomfortable with the sensation of his bare arm rubbing against her own. There was heat in his skin, he felt feverish … then there was another sensation. Electrical, as if with his other arm, he’d reached down and pressed his fingers into a socket. Power jumped off his skin and coursed through the air and into her veins. Her body tensed, her scalp tingled, and then, the surprise, a heat kick started between her legs. Izzy shifted her weight to her other foot and moved over a few centimetres, and away from Feathers. The hair on the back of her neck prickled up, the electricity still darting through the air. She went hot and cold, her skin shrank, her head span, her nipples hardened. She couldn’t think. She shifted again.
    “You got