by Anne Riley
I clap my hands. “Yes! That’s her!”
“She said they grabbed her arm,” Dad continues. “But there was no hitting, no getting shoved in a car. So what are you talking about?”
I’ve based this entire thing off of the first version of the mugging, which apparently didn’t happen for anyone but me.
Everyone stares at me while I fish around for an answer that makes sense.
“See?” Paul says with a smug grin. “Lying.”
I ball my fists. “I’m not lying. It’s just…a complicated truth.”
Silence.
My parents hold another conversation with their eyes. I hate it when they do this because I have absolutely no warning about what’s coming. I can’t prepare at all.
“Rosie,” Mom says. “I think you and Paul have some things to work out. Why don’t you act as his escort to SPARK today? Your dad and I can do Traitor’s Gate on our own.” She looks at her watch again. “They should be letting us in. I don’t understand what the problem is.”
A man in a navy and red uniform comes out of the tower and unhooks the rope from across the doorway. “Sorry for the delay, folks,” he calls out. “Small rat problem, all sorted out now. Tickets at the ready, please.”
Paul is practically burning holes in the concrete with his eyes.
“Okay, little brother,” I say. “We’ve officially been dismissed. Let’s go get some coffee and hug it out until SPARK starts.”
I’ve been angry at Paul before, but I’ve never felt quite as spiteful toward him as I do right now. And apparently the feeling is mutual, because the glower he’s fixed on me smolders with hatred.
“Sure you don’t want to stay here with the rats and Anne Boleyn’s ghost?” he says.
“Oh, I’d pick rats and ghosts over you any day, but Mom and Dad asked me to take you to SPARK. Unlike some people, I actually care about doing the right thing.”
Usually.
“Stop it,” Dad shout-whispers. “You’ve got two hours until SPARK opens. Go to a café or something. And for the love of all that is good and right in the world, figure out how to be civil to one another.”
I give Paul my most sarcastic jazz hands. “Coffee date with my favorite brother! Should we split a pastry, or would you rather I just stab you in the arm with a fork?”
“Maybe just push me off this bridge,” he mutters. “Come on, escort from hell. Let’s get this over with.”
A FEW MINUTES LATER, PAUL AND I ARE ON THE platform at the Tower Gateway DLR station. Tourists are everywhere, and even though I’m technically one of them, annoyance simmers in my gut as they jabber about how much the London Eye costs and where’s that one restaurant that what’s-his-name said we have to try.
My fury toward Paul has tempered a bit now that we’ve ignored each other for several minutes, and instead of wanting to punch his lights out, I’m starting to feel desperate again—just like last night when he left with Max and Luther. It doesn’t matter if he thinks I’m a liar or not; I know what those guys did, and I know my brother needs to stay as far away from them as possible. If Paul ever attacked someone, if he ever altered someone’s life forever in that way, it would destroy me. It would destroy our parents. And let’s face it—Mom and Dad are already on the brink of falling to pieces.
“Listen,” I mutter as we pull away from the station. “You and I need to work out a deal.”
Paul arches an eyebrow. “I don’t make deals with liars.”
“Oh, of course. Because you’re such an honest person. How many of those little bottles do you still have in your backpack?”
He tries to walk away from me, but there’s hardly any room to move, and I catch the sleeve of his T-shirt.
“Just listen to me, okay? If you quit hanging out with Max and Luther, I’ll rescue you from SPARK once a week. Nobody will know.”
I’m really hoping this will work. If anything will convince him to stay away from Max and Luther, it’s time away from SPARK. I’m not even sure I can pull this off, but I’m willing to try.
He shakes his head. “No deal.”
“What? Why?” I tighten my grip on the pole as we screech to a halt at Shadwell station.
“Because,” he says as people push their way on and off of the train, “you don’t get to pick my friends for me.”
“They’re not friends. They’re thugs.” The train moves beneath us, knocking me slightly off-balance.
“You know,” Paul says, “you should really let that one go. The thing about them mugging some girl on the heath, I mean. We all know it’s not true.”
“Paul, you’ve got to believe me; they’re bad news.”
“I don’t have to believe anything, and it’s funny you mention news. That’s where Dad saw the story about the girl, and she definitely wasn’t mugged.”
“But she was almost mugged,” I point out. Man, I really wish everyone else knew about that first scenario. Sure would make my life easier right now.
We grimace at each other as the train pulls into the Westferry station. People jostle around us on their way in and out of the train car. I only have to deal with public transport eight weeks out of the year, but I’m already over it. Driving my quiet little Hyundai is a million times better than trying to keep my balance on a packed train.
“I don’t get why you keep doing this,” Paul says. His cheeks are flushing again. “You say you care about me, and then you screw up my friendships, claiming you’re trying to protect me. Here’s a newsflash—I don’t need your protection.”
“If you would just listen to me—”
“Are you mad because people actually want to hang out with me? Do you want me to be a loser so you’ll feel better about yourself? Are you jealous I’ve made friends here and you haven’t?”
“Jealous?” My eyebrows skyrocket toward my hairline. I’m so stunned at his accusation that I almost fall over when the train starts moving again. “What would I be jealous of? That you’re hanging out with a couple of jerks who have serious hair issues?”
Well, that’s the final straw. I can tell by the way his neck turns pink and his shoulders stiffen. I hate this whole conversation. I hate that Paul and I fight all the time.
I start to tell him this, but he cuts me off again.
“You know what? I just met Luther and Max, but this is the first time I’ve actually felt accepted by anyone since Carter. Everybody else back home, including you, thinks I’m an idiot who can’t do anything right. Everybody thinks I’m weak. But these guys are different. I have fun with them. And if you don’t like it, that’s too bad. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
I hadn’t noticed we were stopping again, but suddenly the doors slide open and my brother starts moving toward them.
“Paul!” I shout. “Hey! Where are you going?”
“SPARK,” he calls over his shoulder. “Where else?”
“It doesn’t start for another hour and a half!”
He ignores me.
I let go of the pole and launch myself into the crowd of people boarding the train. Making progress is impossible; nobody will let me through. I feel like a salmon trying to swim upstream. Somehow, Paul works his way through the crowd, slips through the doors, and strides down the platform toward the station exit.
“Paul!” I get stuck between a couple of large men wearing Yankees hats. “Move, people!”
But it’s too late. The doors close, and my brother is gone.
ELEVEN
I’VE CALLED HIM A MILLION TIMES. HE’S NOT PICKING up.
I could go after him, but by the time I get to SPARK, his first session will have started and I won’t have a chance to see him until lunch. Instead, I stare out the train window and pretend my brother hasn’t just walked out on me. It’s times like this I’m thankful for Londoners’ determination to ignore other people on public transportation. No one will ask if I’m all right, so I won’t have to lie.
My plan is to change trains at Greenwich and head for Blackh
eath, eventually making my way back to Nana’s. But when the train stops and I step onto the platform at Greenwich station, I’m furious at my brother all over again. The train ride gave me too much time to think.
I need to walk. To clear my head.
It’s a busy day on the High Road, even for the summer tourist season. My shoulders graze dozens of others as I push past St. Christopher’s Inn, a backpacker-type hotel with a boisterous downstairs pub. A few summer school students mill around outside Greenwich London College, laughing. I keep my eyes down as I shove through the crowd. Paul’s face keeps popping into my mind, bringing with it a surge of anger and worry. Of course he couldn’t stay on the train with me. That would be too expected. It would make too much sense. And if I’ve learned anything about Paul Clayton over the past year, it’s that he is chock-full of surprises.
I arrive at Greenwich Park a little sweaty and out of breath, but less inclined to send texts with a lot of four-letter words to my brother. Maybe if I can get a few quiet minutes to myself, I’ll be able to deal with him graciously instead of tearing him to shreds.
The sun is out, and as expected, everyone in London is wearing half the clothes they normally would in an effort to soak up the vitamin D. People are sprawled across the park on picnic blankets. Men doze with their shirts off and their sunglasses on. A handful of dogs are scattered around the green while their owners chat and wrap unused leashes around their hands.
This kind of weather is a treasure, and not one I plan to miss out on.
Daffodils have bloomed on the hill just below Greenwich Observatory. Their cheerful yellow color makes me breathe a little easier, somehow. A small piece of beauty in the midst of a strange, unsettling week. I walk up the hill and settle down at the edge of the flowerbed. Here, finally, I can rest. The sunbathers are farther down the hill near the road, and the tourists at the observatory are too far behind me to be a bother.
As I look out over the London skyline, the extent of my exhaustion sinks deep into my bones and I let out a groan. My eyelids seem determined to fall shut, no matter how much I fight them. My weary body doesn’t care that I don’t have a blanket to lie on; nothing has ever felt as comfortable as the soft grass beneath me, so I kick off my sandals and stretch out with my eyes closed.
It can’t be more than one minute later when I hear a familiar voice—rumbly and soft, like distant thunder— coming from somewhere above me.
“You’ve got nerve, lounging about on your own after what happened on the heath. At least it isn’t raining this time.”
My stomach lurches and I bolt to a sitting position. Albert is standing in front of me. The guy with the dreadlocks is with him, his dark eyes slightly narrowed. He stands with rigid shoulders and crossed arms, the tightness of his black T-shirt emphasizing the strength of his chest. He’s probably not that much more muscular than Albert, but he has a way of carrying himself that makes him seem huge, and it takes everything I’ve got to keep from edging away.
“Hi,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
Albert nods toward the road. “Isaac and I were just out walking.”
His friend—Isaac—gives him a look. “That’s not exactly true.” If Albert’s voice reminds me of thunder, Isaac’s is like an earthquake, low and threatening. “Albert saw you on the High Road and made me follow you up here. I tried to convince him otherwise, but he wouldn’t listen.”
He glares at me, and I swallow.
“Easy, mate,” Albert says to him.
Isaac shakes his head. “I told you how I felt about all this.”
“Yeah, and I told you what she told me.” Albert’s voice is smooth as glass, the kind of tone I use with Paul when he’s about to flip out. “The least you can do is give her a chance.”
Isaac’s jaw works as he and Albert stare each other down. All I wanted was to enjoy the sun and the daffodils, but now I’m smack in the middle of a testosterone-laden standoff.
“Fine,” Isaac says. “Do what you want. I’m going to work.” He walks away without looking at me, leaving the air thick with tension.
Albert gives me an apologetic smile. He shifts the watch on his wrist from one side to the other. “Sorry. Isaac is a bit uncertain about all of this.”
“You told him about me?”
“After what you said you’d experienced, how could I not?”
It’s hard to believe this is the same guy from last night. On the heath, he was a fighter—rugged, powerful, and dangerous. Now he looks almost kind, although he still carries a few bruises and cuts.
“Thank you,” I say.
He tilts his head. “For?”
“What you did last night. I never thanked you.”
“Oh, that. You’re welcome.”
He drops to the ground beside me and lies back with his hands folded across his stomach. His sudden nearness unsettles me. Even on the heath in the middle of the rain, when we practically stood nose to nose, I didn’t feel his presence quite as acutely as I feel it now. His scar stands out in the sunlight, a deep purplish-pink against his fair skin.
“So,” he says. “Who are you?”
I scoff at him. “Are you kidding? If either of us should be answering that question, it’s you.”
He smiles. “All in good time. You first.”
I cross my legs under me and stare out over the park. “I’m a waitress from Nashville who’s freaked out about some off-the-charts déjà vu.”
“Nashville.” He turns to me, squinting against the sunlight. “Country music?”
I hug my knees to my chest. “Yeah, but I hate country music.”
“Banjos and hoedowns don’t do it for you?”
“Nah, I’m more of a gangster rap kind of girl. Can’t you tell?” I wriggle my toes in the grass and cut my eyes over to him. It’s always fun to see whether or not people pick up on my humor.
He gives me a one-sided smile. “Yes, gangster rap fans often wear pink T-shirts with stars across the front.”
“Are you saying my shirt doesn’t give me street cred?”
“Of course not, I would never imply anything of the sort. Anyway, listen, I know you’re dying to talk more about last night, but I’ve got errands to run this afternoon.”
Aha! More secrets. “What kind of errands?”
“Nothing worth talking about.” He won’t make eye contact with me. “I need to go uptown now, in fact, but I’m up for meeting later if you are.”
He says it as if we meet up all the time. As if we didn’t just have an argument in the middle of a storm about whether or not I’d seen two endings to the same event.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Even if you tell me what happened, how do I know you’re being honest?”
“Good question.” He sits up. “I suppose, realistically, you can’t know for sure. But I do have an explanation for what you’re experiencing—it’s not déjà vu, by the way— and I’m very interested to know what you feel when you see two outcomes to the same scenario. It’s up to you whether or not to trust me.”
So he’s going to acknowledge what I told him, then. I expected him to deny it, or at least be vague and irritating about the whole thing.
“It’s not that I just see it,” I say. “I live it again.”
He looks at me for a moment. “I feel like I should already know this, but what’s your name?”
“Rosie.”
“No last name?”
“You’ll find out when you prove you’re not a serial killer.”
He gets to his feet with a grunt. “Fair enough, Rosie. If you want to talk to me tonight, I’ll be at the Hare & Billet at six o’clock. If you don’t want to talk, I’ll have some quality time with myself.”
“I can’t guarantee I’ll be there.”
He shrugs. “Not asking you to. If you come, have someone walk with you. It’s not a good idea for you to be alone in Blackheath.”
“Why?” A sense of foreboding traces its finger down my spine. “Is the man who attacked m
e still out there? I thought your friends took care of him.”
He looks away from me. “We do the best we can. Sometimes it’s enough. Sometimes it’s not.”
What? What does that mean?
He turns his back to me and takes a few steps down the hill before stopping. “Just do me a favor,” he says, spinning around to face me, “and don’t go running around in the rain again.”
“Please,” I say. “You might as well tell me to become a hermit. This is London, remember?”
“I’m just telling you to be careful.”
“Duly noted.”
“Anyway,” he says, “mine’s Shaw.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“My last name. So now you know I don’t think you’re a serial killer, whatever you might think about me.”
He strides down the hill and disappears into the shade of the chestnut trees, and once he’s out of sight, I get to my feet and hurry toward Nana’s.
I have a decision to make.
TWELVE
I’M CURLED UP ON NANA’S COUCH WATCHING MY FIFTH Big Brother rerun on Channel 5, alternating between hoping Paul has run away forever and worrying I’ll never see him again. The conversation with Albert has played on a loop in my head ever since I got home; should I meet him tonight, or am I better off getting out of this— whatever it is—while I can?
Even though he seems trustworthy, the image of him beating up Max and Luther on the heath is etched in my mind. I can still see the veins in his forearms popping out as he clenched his fists, the coldness in his eyes when he told me to get out of there. He’s capable of violence; that much is clear. But if he only becomes violent when he’s protecting someone, I’m not sure it’s a bad thing.
I glance at the chipped penguin clock on the bookcase—a gift I gave Nana when I was in preschool. The penguin’s flippers act as the hands of the clock, and right now, they read 5:22 PM. Paul should be home by now.
As if on cue, the front door opens and he appears in the entryway.
“There you are!” I cry.
He throws his SPARK manual (“Lighting Up the Darkness: How to Ignite the SPARK of Success in Your Life”) on the buffet table by the door, drops his keys in the bowl with a loud clank, and says, “SPARK gets out at 5:00. Train takes a few minutes. I’m right on freaking time.” His nostrils flare a little as he tugs off his toboggan cap. The hair beneath it is a tousled nest of brown waves, and if all this were happening a couple years ago, I’d make fun of him for looking like a shaggy dog that just woke up from a nap.