Rotten Gods by Greg Barron Page B

me. I don’t usually do things like that.’
    From above came the sound of a sliding door opening and a voice, calling, ‘Isabella, we’re going.’
    â€˜Oh shit. Dad’s calling me. Is my lipstick OK?’
    Simon used his finger to wipe a smear away. ‘Looks awfully good to me. Can I see you again?’
    â€˜If you like. Ring me. We’re in the book.’
    With that she turned and took the slope at a run.
    When she had gone, Simon sat on the springy grass and smiled to himself.
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    There was no first date in a traditional sense. Simon ran into her at the counter of David Mann’s department store the next day on his way to net practice. Everyone in Cranleigh seemed to meet up there. Since the shelves contained almost everything worth buying, there always seemed to be a reason to visit the place.
    â€˜I got another chance with the firsts on Saturday,’ he enthused.
    There was no trace of the giddy Isabella of the previous day. Mystified silence, then: ‘What the hell are you on about?’
    â€˜Cricket.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    The shop assistant placed her hands on her hips and coughed.
    â€˜So sorry,’ Simon said, slipping a five pound note from his wallet and passing it across, before turning his attention back to Isabella. ‘Do you want to come and watch?’ He remembered what she had said about the game, and looked away, accepting his change. ‘You might not think it’s the most exciting thing in the world, but you can bring a book and we’ll have a bite to eat afterwards.’
    Isabella shrugged, then lifted one bare shoulder to scratch the side of her neck. ‘I guess. If you really want me to.’
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    At Shamley Green a brown pole topped with a white duck and set of wickets marked the cricket ground, surrounded on all sides by sealed roads. Simon loved to play here: the soft, green turf; the trees; the red and brown brick houses with their picket fences and white framed windows, often with nets hung over glass panes in case of an errant six. Horse riders, practising golfers and even the local mobile library often turned up on the fringes of the game.
    With Isabella watching demurely from a borrowed deckchair, novel closed and resting in her lap, Simon strode out to face theGodalming bowling attack, led by a six-foot-six streak of lightning known across the county as Chicken Leg Harris.
    The first ball, a bouncer, Simon hooked into the car park of Arbuthnot Hall to scattered applause. The second he nicked clean to second slip and found himself walking, embarrassed, back to the bleachers.
    After the game, he took Isabella across the road to the Red Lion, a square, whitewashed building that sported twin white chimneys and a gabled doorway. Showered, a pint of London Pride on his breath and team songs ringing in his ears he bought her dinner, while his victorious teammates played pool in the adjacent room, making lewd gestures behind her back as they passed on their way to the gents.
    Later, Simon drove her home. Parked outside her house, he wasn’t sure what to expect. Her kiss, however, was feverish, and he slid one hand down under the coarse fabric of her dress.
    She groaned. ‘I’m not sure what it is, but you seem to have a strange effect on me.’
    Her words inflamed him further, and he reached for her.
    She pushed him away. ‘I don’t think I’ll fall in love with you, though.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜You’re too nice. I think I’ve got a thing for rogues.’
    â€˜I can be a rogue too.’
    â€˜Can you?’ Her tongue was just visible behind the parted lips.
    â€˜Yes, I can.’
    â€˜There’s a quiet place down by the old canal. We could go there if you like.’
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    Simon remembered how it felt, that first time, how she lay back in his arms in the reclined seat afterwards and confessed her virginity.
    â€˜Really? I thought you must