STONES
POLLY JOHNSON
Authonomy
by HarperCollinsPublishers
For H, E and D
also
The ‘Amazing Writers’ and Authonomites
for all the reading.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
About Authonomy
Copyright
About the Publisher
1.
‘Admit you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘That’s all you have to do. It’s not hard.’
When you’re being held against a wall – feet almost off the floor and a hand gripping your throat – it’s always best to agree.
‘Yes, okay. You’re right; let go!’
The red face – spit round the mouth – came closer. Eyes squinted a hair’s breadth from mine and a horrible smell of stale beer bloomed in my nostrils. It would be okay though. He was right. I’d said it…
I walk fast, head tucked into the neck of my jacket like a tortoise. Adrenaline washes through me in a hot tide so I don’t feel the tang of ice in the sea-wind. The windows of the streets and squares glow yellow, and shop windows flicker to life as Brighton wakes. I hurry through it as though my feet are on fire, while commuters barge past me the other way, cups of stinking coffee held before them as shields. My heart surges in my chest and I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be part of it. I just need to reach the sea.
‘Lying little moron,’ the voice sneers again in my head. ‘You don’t mean that. You think you’re so smart…’
Voices from the dead. At night the past spills over into morning and I wake thinking it’s now. I lie there in the early light and remind myself it isn’t. It’s done. I tell myself this over and over, hoping that will make it true and the memories will fade like the Shrink Woman tells me. Until then, they wake me with a jolt each morning. Memories of my brother Sam. Of what he turned into…
…The hand tightened on my throat. Black and silver stars exploded on the edges of my vision. ‘I’m wrong,’ I said. ‘Sam! I agree!’ I tried to make my voice as loud as I could, so that maybe someone upstairs would hear me and come down. He slammed my head back against the wall – again, then again…
‘I’m going to kill you,’ he said.
I’ve walked so fast, I’m already crossing Grand Junction Road. The long green railings and pier entrance are ahead and after that there’s only the sky, streaked with orange and pink, and no sound but the shush of waves washing lazily over stones. I hurry down the steps to the promenade, move the rucksack to my other shoulder and slow down, listening to the suck and blow of the water and the hum of the wind. It’s quiet now… calm… until suddenly a voice breaks in – shocking as a slap: ‘Oi. Girl. You – Girl!’
I keep moving, twisting my head to find the speaker, and then I see him.
Over the road, in the shadow of the tall arches, are two men. One lies on a bench and hefts himself up to stare at me. His face is ghostly pale in the dimness, but it’s the shouter I fix my eyes on. He walks towards me with a strange scissoring stride – hair in a mad, red halo, his mouth a wet gape.
‘I saw God!’ he bellows, so close now that I hear him breathing. ‘I saw God, and he had a message for you!’
His eyes are red-rimmed and crusty, eyelashes yellow with some gungy mess, and the scent of him carried on the breeze is a ripe, biscuity stink. I look down and keep walking, my feet shooting in and out beneath me in a blur, but he keeps pace – one hand coming up to clutch my jacket.
‘You!’ he says again. ‘Girl!’
The fingers catch and hold – tightening – before they’re suddenly snapped away. The man with the pale face has him, his arm locked round the nutter’s neck, holding him back. For a second our eyes meet – his, the colour of moss on stones – and something unspoken passes between us. He smiles at me even as the red-haired man struggles and growls, and I get away while I can, breath tearing out of my chest and sweat cold on my forehead. I run until I feel pebbles under my feet and I’m safe on the beach. It’s just me now, but for a single grey gull riding the air currents, and far in the distance a hesitant bather stammering on the frozen stones. The day is full of madmen.
No one has followed me, but I keep moving all the same; hugging the rucksack close, not sure why I brought it. It’s an old bag – you can still see the faint printed outline of Barbie on one side – and it’s stuffed with emergency supplies for when I leave: a change of clothes, a map of London and a small knife from the kitchen. No money though, which makes bringing it pointless. No money; no train.
After a while I crunch my way back over the pebbles and stop, letting the cold squeeze me. The end of the mini railway is in sight, and with it, the end of the promenade. I don’t know where to go from there.
As I’m thinking, a blob appears and as it gets closer, I see it’s a lad wearing the same uniform as mine. He’s stuffing a sausage roll in his face and talking to himself. As he draws level and sees me, the talking stops and he blushes deep red. ‘Don’t keep on that way,’ he says. ‘There’s police.’
I ignore him and walk on, but he turns and follows, keeping pace and flicking glances from me to the road ahead. He has fluffy blonde hair, an earring, and a dirty smear down his face as if he’s been crying. I wish he’d go away.
‘You should stop,’ he says. ‘Something’s happened up there.’
I walk faster. ‘Why should I care if there’s police?’
‘You’re meant to be in school, right? Like me.’
‘It’s early – and it’s not their business anyway.’
He blushes again, the hot stain washing up his neck and into his hairline.
‘It might be. They looked at me funny. There’s nothing to see, but you don’t want to draw attention. I’m going to warm up somewhere.’
Being warm sounds good, but I keep going until I see the cars drawn up in a tight circle. There are four policemen and a dog; I stop. The boy watches me and I notice that as well as the tear streak, there’s a line of dirt all round his chin. He looks as miserable as I feel, but for some reason, I decide to go with him.
The police don’t notice us anyway. They’re clustered opposite the big white ruin I call ‘The Mansion’. One of the policemen comes out of its door-less front, talking into a radio, and we turn our backs, walking with the wind behind us.
‘Good decision,’ the boy says. ‘It’s nicer to have company, don’t you think? I fancy a latte, how about you?’
I make a face. ‘A latte? That’s what my mum drinks.’
For a moment he just look
s at me with eyes round as marbles. There’s a faint stubble round his mouth so he must be older than I am, but he’s going red again like a little girl.
‘I have expensive tastes,’ he shrugs. ‘You may have a Coke if you like, but I shall have a latte.’
He’s odd, but I like him. He smiles, lights a cigarette and offers me the packet. I shake my head and we go on in a burst of smoky scent, not even talking, like we’ve known each other for years. Before I know it, we’re back with the tramps.
The man who saved me is sitting up, head in hands, fingers rubbing at his temples with slow concentration. The shouter is glaring up and down the seafront, waving a can around and muttering. Any hope of slipping past is gone when he sees us and steps into the road.
‘Hey,’ he croaks, hoarse now. ‘You found a boy! Is he a good boy? Everyone should have a boy…’
The ‘boy’ glances at me and grins. ‘Friend of yours?’ he asks.
‘Don’t answer,’ I say. ‘He’s nuts.’
The red-headed man sways over to join us, eyes fixed on me. ‘Tell her!’ he croaks, ‘Tell her I got a message from God.’
‘You tell her,’ the lad says, and I dig him shuttup in the ribs.
‘Oh, don’t be mean,’ he says. ‘Even nutters need friends.’
‘You have him then. Personally, he’s not my type.’
As soon as we reach a busier part of the promenade the madman stops as if at an invisible checkpoint. He stands muttering, and then the mutters turn to shouts and the shouts into shrieks as we pull away. I think I still hear them long after we’re gone, like the howls of a beast. At last we reach La Gigo Gi, where my ears are soon burning in the warmth. The boy brings our drinks and sits down, sweeping spilt sugar into a heap and tweezing it up with his fingers. When he’s done, he looks up and smiles. ‘I like to be tidy,’ he says, ‘don’t you? How old are you, by the way?’
I tell him I’m just sixteen and he raises an eyebrow. Then, to my horror, pushes his chair back and shakes his head. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Way too young for me. I really can’t be seen talking to you.’
Standing, he turns away, and I can’t believe it – until I see the smile on his face and realise he’s joking.
‘You have a weird sense of humour.’
‘Have to,’ he says. ‘Otherwise I’d go crazy.’
I start to laugh, but his face is so serious, it dies halfway. He sits down again, picking up the free biscuit that came with his coffee. It’s some buttery, almond thing and I watch him bite into it from the cover of my fringe. Tiny crumbs of sugar stick to his lips and his tongue comes out to catch them. While he’s looking down, I tuck the stray hair behind my ears and wipe at my face.
‘You look fine,’ he says. ‘I like your hair, though I bet you hate it. Girls always want what they don’t have.’
He’s right. I don’t mind the colour, which is what they call auburn, but I would rather it was straight. I lift a curl and twirl it round my finger, but he’s gazing out of the window where the sky is white and cold.
‘How come I’ve not seen you around?’ I ask. ‘At school I mean.’
He stares at me and sighs. ‘I only came this September. And I haven’t seen you either.’
I wonder where he was before. He has such a fancy voice I’m sure it was a private place, but I daren’t ask because I don’t want any questions back. If I tell him he hasn’t seen me because I haven’t been able to face it, he’ll want to know why, and who knows what’ll come spilling out? He’d think I was madder than the tramp if he knew that the reason I’m sometimes not in school is because I’m seeing a psychologist. People always do, even if they don’t say so.
He must notice my hesitation because he sits forward and smiles. ‘So,’ he says, ‘why are you bunking off?’
I’m about to change the subject like I always do, when something strange happens and I find myself talking as if it’s nothing to do with me at all. A whole stream of words that burst out together in one breath: ‘It’s my brother,’ I tell him. ‘He died. Everyone thinks I should be over it by now, but I’m not. They think it’s because I miss him, I suppose, but I don’t. They’d think I was evil if I said so, but I just don’t.’
‘Oh,’ he says and waits for me to go on, but it’s more than I’ve admitted to anyone before. I feel the panic rising and it must show in my face because he shakes his head. ‘Forget it,’ he says. ‘If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. Leave it.’
We sit there, avoiding each other’s eyes, but just as it’s getting awkward he asks for my number and email address. After that we leave, walking through the town in a warm silence. We wander for hours, in and out of shops, along the pier and through the arcades. We buy sandwiches and take them down to the promenade to eat like we’ve known each other for years. I watch his face when I’m sure he won’t notice, and follow the calm movement of his hands as he rolls up the sandwich wrappers. Once it’s late enough he walks me home and when we reach the bottom of my road he stuffs his hands in his pockets and grins. For a boy who’d obviously been blubbing when I met him, he smiles more than most people.
‘Goodbye then,’ he says and goes ten paces before turning back and calling out: ‘Oh! How stupid – I don’t know your name. Mine is Joe. Joe Steen.’
‘Coo,’ I say. ‘At least that’s what everyone calls me.’
‘Coo,’ says Joe. ‘Coo. Like a dove. I like that.’
I stand and watch him till he disappears. He’s put a long coat over his uniform and his blonde head seems to shine. For the first time in ages, I reach home without thinking how much I hate it there. It’s not the place itself but the silence; especially the silence in Sam’s empty room. I don’t think about that today, though. Today I don’t mind going in, because I’ve got something new to think about. Something that makes me feel warm and wanted instead of empty and afraid.
2.
We’ve lived in Brighton for two years. Before that we lived in Oxford and before that, somewhere else. Mum and Dad would decide that this move would be the last; that a change of scene would do it. It wouldn’t, of course, so then they’d decide that Sam would manage on his own if they paid his rent, but nothing lasted. After a few months, he’d turn up on our doorstep looking dirty and desperate, and Mum and Dad would let him right on in. I would have just shut the door in his face, brother or not, but no one listened to me – and now we are three.
You can still see us as a whole family in the photo on my bedroom wall – Mum, Dad, Sam and me. It’s taken in the before; you can tell because we’re smiling. The photo shows us on holiday, wearing shorts and squinting in the sun. I’m just a toddler, and Sam is about ten. He stands in front of us grinning, one hand brushing the curls from his eyes and the other waving into the future with no idea of where he’s heading. I leave it up so I can remember that it wasn’t always like this.
Our house is in a long row. It has three storeys and two front doors: a normal one that leads into the hall and another for what used to be a downstairs room and is now Mum’s antiques shop. Two people are coming out as I arrive, with a glass lamp and a curly legged table tucked under their arms, which makes them look like escaping thieves instead of customers. There’s a little tussle on the doorstep while we do that dance people do when they’re in each other’s way, and it’s as I stand aside to let them pass that I see him. The mad tramp is right there at the end of our row, watching. His hair, lifted by the wind, is held back by a grubby claw and he says nothing, only stares at me for a long moment before baring his teeth in a yellow grin.
I’m frozen in place, staring back while he begins to move towards me, dropping a can into the gutter as if he wants both hands free…
I clutch the door handle. If I go inside, he’ll know it’s where I live, but I’m scared to stay out here. He takes another step and stops dead. Someone is behind me.
‘Corinne?’
I jump before I realise it’s Matt, my friend and near neighbour. I turn and get behind him,
shaking my head.
Matt steps forward and stares at the red-haired man who’s standing half in the gutter. ‘You want something?’ he asks.
The tramp looks at him – slowly, up and down. He starts at Matt’s pointy leather boots and goes up all the way up to his blonde hair. His mouth curls open in a growl. Finally he spits out words: ‘Gotta message for that girl… Need to give it to her…’
‘Get lost,’ Matt tells him and leads me across the road to where he and Ben had been unloading their car.
‘Who the hell is that?’ he nods, but when we look back, the street is empty.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘Just being a good neighbour.’
‘Just getting out of helping me with this, you mean,’ Ben says.
We look down at the thing they were unloading and Matt laughs. ‘What the hell is it anyway?’ I say.
Ben sighs. ‘It is a statue of Pan,’ he explains. But to me it’s still just a weird sort of half-man-half-goat thing tootling away on some pipes.
‘Where are you putting it?’
‘Heaven knows,’ Ben says. ‘It’s a present from my sister. Probably stick it by the bath with a towel over its head.’
‘You didn’t make it to school then?’ Matt says to me, ignoring Ben. He nods at my uniform, then his watch, his pale eyes unblinking.
‘I meant to,’ I tell him.
He sighs. ‘Come round anytime. I could give you a lift.’
I look at my feet and nod. He’s not fooled.
Mum and Dad don’t have many friends here. Nor do I. When you have someone like Sam threatening to burst in on things at any moment, you tend to keep yourself to yourself. Ben and Matt are different, though. They knew all there was to know from the start – from the first day they moved in.
It was about a year ago and past midnight when I heard the hammering of fists on wood and Sam’s voice blaring into the night from across the street. I let Mum and Dad sleep and darted over to find him slumped on someone else’s doorstep with a cut on one eyebrow and tears on his face. The door opened and two men peered out, looking nervous.
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