Kiss in the Dark by Lauren Henderson

their hunger pangs (it was cheaper than food, believe it or not), or just escape the misery of their lives. If you kept on drinking gin, the capillaries on your face, which are the very small fine veins near the surface, would burst and give you away.
    Certainly Mr. Barnes, with his nice, well-paid job-for-life and his tied cottage, has a lot less excuse than starving Dickensian orphans to be hitting the bottle. But his gin blossoms, a thick tracery of red veins on his cheeks, are very visible, as is his strawberry nose. Jase says his dad’s preferred tipple is actually whisky, not gin, but clearly the effects are the same.
    Once Jase told me that his dad was drop-dead gorgeous when he and Jase’s mum got married. In fact, Jase said he looked like that actor from the old Star Wars films, Harrison Ford. Tall, dark, and handsome. I believe him, because (a) Jase has never lied to me, and (b) Jase is so handsome himself (blush) that it only makes sense that his dad must have been really good-looking too.
    It’s sad that Mr. Barnes has drunk so much over the last eighteen years that you can barely imagine that once he was as handsome as a film star. I almost feel sorry for him. Or I would, if, when he got drunk, he weren’t chasing us over the school grounds, waving his torch menacingly and calling me a whore. That kind of thing tends to cut down on the available sympathy I have for a person, I find.
    Instinctively, I take a step back on finding myself so close to him. I’m sure that if Mr. Barnes is visiting my grandmother on a Sunday afternoon, he won’t be stupid enough to be drunk while doing it. But drunk or sober, he still has a nasty temper, and he’s a lot bigger than I am.
    Sure enough, he’s glaring at me from under his thick gray-flecked brows.
    “I was just coming to see my grandmother,” I say unnecessarily. Now it’s pretty obvious that I’m very unnerved by him.
    Mr. Barnes grunts something, and I take another step back, giving him plenty of room to move past me. He’s dressed in the kind of Sunday best people wear in the country: an old tweed jacket, corduroy trousers, and a white shirt, certainly a step up from the mucky old clothes he and Jase wear when they’re gardening. The smart (for him) clothes make him look more human, less like a monster who chases you in the dark. Bravely, I try my best to smile at him. Even more bravely, I say politely, as he grunts again and walks past me, down the corridor:
    “Have a nice Sunday, Mr. Barnes.”
    God, what am I doing? I sound like an idiot. It’s a bit too late to show him what good manners I have and what a nice girlfriend I’d make for his son. I hope I haven’t sounded as if I’m mocking him.
    It goes down like a lead balloon. Mr. Barnes swings around and raises his hand, pointing at me with a big gnarled finger. His hands are red and chapped from working outdoors in all kinds of weather.
    “I’ve warned you already,” he says hoarsely. “I don’t want you near my son. You’ve been told enough times.”
    Then he turns and lumbers off down the corridor, his Sunday-best shoes squeaking on the polished boards.
    My shoulders sag. It’s not just because I messed up that encounter; it’s because, for the life of me, I can’t think of anything I could have said or done that would have been more successful. Mr. Barnes is a lost cause for me. As is Aunt Gwen.
    This depressing thought makes me debate my impulse to visit my grandmother and talk to her about the situation with me and Jase. We’ve got two of the most important adults in our lives implacably opposed to our being together; it’s too dangerous, as Taylor would put it, to run the risk of being 0 for 3. What if Lady Wakefield agrees with Aunt Gwen and Mr. Barnes? My grandmother is like God here at Wakefield Hall. No one dares to go against her will. She’s a benevolent dictator, but cross her at your peril.
    The heavy mahogany door to my grandmother’s private quarters is on a slow