alright. What if she saw my tears? The last thing I wanted was a heart-to-heart with my mother about why Luc Donovan was being a dick.
‘I’m fine,’ I called, quickening my pace and heading up the stairs two at a time. ‘Just tired.’
‘Want some tea?’ she called up the stairs at my retreating back.
‘No thanks. G’night.’ I hoped she’d leave it at that.
‘Okay, darling. Night. Oh, did you get my flour?’
I stopped at the top of the stairs and called down. ‘Sorry, Ma. I forgot to pick it up. Rita said that’s fine though.’
As soon as I closed the bedroom door behind me, I let it all out. I clenched my fists and gave a sob. Maybe it was post-traumatic shock from the riots or something. Maybe I was losing my marbles. I didn’t even bother to take off my coat and shoes. Just lay face down on the bed. I wanted to hurl something at the wall. Break something. Punch a hole in the door. But I didn’t. I felt so mad at Luc Donovan and mad at myself too. I should’ve stayed and told him he was being a git, but I hadn’t wanted him to see my tears. Why had he been so mean? He’d been spoiling for a fight and I should’ve stayed and fought back.
I sat up and wiped my face with my sleeve. Should I march back over there and tell him what I thought? But tell him what exactly? No. I’d only end up making things worse between us. If that were possible.
Chapter Eight
Jamie
She lay there, dead, unmoving on the ground; the coloured glass fragments decorating her body like precious jewels set into alabaster. Jamie reached down to touch them, but instead of hard glass, they were soft and smooth, like they were part of her skin. He moved his finger to another piece of the glass – a clear fragment embedded in her cheek. It felt gross and spongy like jelly. But suddenly the place he touched began to bleed, a trickle at first and then a spurt of dark red blood, staining her face and pooling around his thick dirty fingers. The dead girl opened her eyes and Jamie screamed.
Sweat coated his face and his heart pumped. It was a dream. A nightmare, that was all. The girl was dead and far away from here. But Jamie knew that the image of the girl would never leave him. She was part of his waking and dreaming life now. He sat up and tried to slow his breathing. The room was dark and quiet. He was in the Boscombe 'pound, he remembered. That woman doctor had fixed up his leg and let him get some sleep. Only sleep wasn’t good. Sleep was scary. Such a waste of a good bed. He hadn’t slept in a proper bed since forever. It even had a pillow with feathers.
His face felt weird and Jamie reached up to scratch his beard. But his fingers found nothing but smooth skin, and then he remembered – he’d shaved his beard off earlier. It felt strange, like his head was lighter. It probably was.
Propping up the pillow, Jamie eased himself into a sitting position. A tin cup sat on a bedside table. He picked it up and sniffed at it. A faint metallic scent. He took a sip – water. He gulped all the liquid down and set the cup back on the table. What now? He closed his eyes and the girl’s face appeared. Jamie tried to banish it with thoughts of the doctor and of Mr Carter and of the other girl he was supposed to meet here, but the dead girl’s face kept shimmering back into focus. This was bad. He was cracking up.
He needed to get away from his own company. Maybe the doctor, Miriam . . . maybe she was somewhere around here. Maybe she could give him something to stop him freaking out. He swung his legs off the bed, gasping as the pain from his damaged limb shot through his body. More carefully this time, he eased his legs onto the floor. But he wasn’t sure if he dared put weight on his bad leg. The ice pack was still strapped to it, but the ice must’ve melted because it didn’t feel cold anymore.
Then Jamie saw something propped up against the wall next to the bed. Two long sticks of metal with circular attachments
‘I’m fine,’ I called, quickening my pace and heading up the stairs two at a time. ‘Just tired.’
‘Want some tea?’ she called up the stairs at my retreating back.
‘No thanks. G’night.’ I hoped she’d leave it at that.
‘Okay, darling. Night. Oh, did you get my flour?’
I stopped at the top of the stairs and called down. ‘Sorry, Ma. I forgot to pick it up. Rita said that’s fine though.’
As soon as I closed the bedroom door behind me, I let it all out. I clenched my fists and gave a sob. Maybe it was post-traumatic shock from the riots or something. Maybe I was losing my marbles. I didn’t even bother to take off my coat and shoes. Just lay face down on the bed. I wanted to hurl something at the wall. Break something. Punch a hole in the door. But I didn’t. I felt so mad at Luc Donovan and mad at myself too. I should’ve stayed and told him he was being a git, but I hadn’t wanted him to see my tears. Why had he been so mean? He’d been spoiling for a fight and I should’ve stayed and fought back.
I sat up and wiped my face with my sleeve. Should I march back over there and tell him what I thought? But tell him what exactly? No. I’d only end up making things worse between us. If that were possible.
Chapter Eight
Jamie
She lay there, dead, unmoving on the ground; the coloured glass fragments decorating her body like precious jewels set into alabaster. Jamie reached down to touch them, but instead of hard glass, they were soft and smooth, like they were part of her skin. He moved his finger to another piece of the glass – a clear fragment embedded in her cheek. It felt gross and spongy like jelly. But suddenly the place he touched began to bleed, a trickle at first and then a spurt of dark red blood, staining her face and pooling around his thick dirty fingers. The dead girl opened her eyes and Jamie screamed.
Sweat coated his face and his heart pumped. It was a dream. A nightmare, that was all. The girl was dead and far away from here. But Jamie knew that the image of the girl would never leave him. She was part of his waking and dreaming life now. He sat up and tried to slow his breathing. The room was dark and quiet. He was in the Boscombe 'pound, he remembered. That woman doctor had fixed up his leg and let him get some sleep. Only sleep wasn’t good. Sleep was scary. Such a waste of a good bed. He hadn’t slept in a proper bed since forever. It even had a pillow with feathers.
His face felt weird and Jamie reached up to scratch his beard. But his fingers found nothing but smooth skin, and then he remembered – he’d shaved his beard off earlier. It felt strange, like his head was lighter. It probably was.
Propping up the pillow, Jamie eased himself into a sitting position. A tin cup sat on a bedside table. He picked it up and sniffed at it. A faint metallic scent. He took a sip – water. He gulped all the liquid down and set the cup back on the table. What now? He closed his eyes and the girl’s face appeared. Jamie tried to banish it with thoughts of the doctor and of Mr Carter and of the other girl he was supposed to meet here, but the dead girl’s face kept shimmering back into focus. This was bad. He was cracking up.
He needed to get away from his own company. Maybe the doctor, Miriam . . . maybe she was somewhere around here. Maybe she could give him something to stop him freaking out. He swung his legs off the bed, gasping as the pain from his damaged limb shot through his body. More carefully this time, he eased his legs onto the floor. But he wasn’t sure if he dared put weight on his bad leg. The ice pack was still strapped to it, but the ice must’ve melted because it didn’t feel cold anymore.
Then Jamie saw something propped up against the wall next to the bed. Two long sticks of metal with circular attachments
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