He’d been thinking about it ever since they arrived. What had happened yesterday had made up his mind. Everyone was furious with him, including himself. He didn’t blame them at all.
Granddad had brought him up some dinner, fish and chips Scott had collected, and told him Arthur was fine, and that everyone was going to have an early night. He’d put a hand on his hair and asked, ‘Are you coming down?’
Ethan had shaken his head.
‘Maybe that’s best. Let everyone calm down. It’ll be better tomorrow.’
‘Will it?’
‘We all know, Eth, that it was an accident.’
‘Nick’s never gonna forgive me.’
‘Of course he will. He was frightened, that’s all. Scared. He’s already –’
‘Lost so much. I know.’
‘Trust me when I tell you that this too shall pass.’
He always said that. One of his weird little pearls of wisdom. Was it from some poem, or the Bible, or something?
Ethan wasn’t at all sure it would, though. He didn’t see how. He ruined everything, didn’t he? A Midas touch of crap. He’d nearly killed Arthur. His family would hate him. He hated himself. Saskia was gone. His mates had almost given up on him. Results would probably be a shit-storm of mediocrity. He might be called a rapist, for God’s sake. It felt hopeless. He felt hopeless.
Mum had come in eventually, but he was too pissed off with her by then to want to speak to her, so he’d pretended he was asleep.
He’d slept badly, if at all, and by the time it was starting to get light, he knew what he wanted to do. At first it was just about not being here – about getting as far away from these people and this situation as quickly as he could.
The thought of where he might go came later, dawning on him gradually, hopefully, wonderfully. He wanted to see Saskia. He hadn’t dared shower, in case he woke Hayley and Meredith. He’d pulled on a shirt and jeans, and he’d left. He wanted to message her and tell her he was coming, but she hadn’t read any of his messages since that awful night. They’d probably changed her number.
He was in somewhere called Kidlington when his mum’s message pinged up on the screen. Where are you?
He turned his phone over so he couldn’t see it.
She waited five minutes. Ethan?????
Another ten minutes. You’re scaring me, Ethan. Please answer.
I’m fine. Don’t worry. Just needed some time.
This wasn’t her fault. He didn’t want her to be frightened.
OK. I understand.
He didn’t reply to that one.
The next one was longer. If he opened it, to read the whole thing, he’d have to reply, so he didn’t. He could see only the first part of the message on his screen.
Granddad told me what happened. I get that you feel horrid about it. You did a stupid thing …
He couldn’t see the rest. Was she furious with him or protectively defensive? He’d rather she was furious.
When he was about eight, he’d stolen a packet of chewing gum from the local newsagent. The owner knew his mum because they went in there all the time and he knew how to contact her because she had some magazines on order. He’d held Ethan by the shoulder, in the days when you could touch someone else’s kid and as long as you weren’t hurting them it was sort of okay, while he dialled Mum’s number. He needn’t have done that. Ethan was far too frightened to run. He’d never taken anything he wasn’t supposed to. He hadn’t really understood why he’d done it then – it was the first time he’d done anything like that.
When she’d arrived, and Mr Cole had told her what had happened, she’d crouched, held both his arms and asked him if he had done it.
And he’d lied. He said he hadn’t. He said he’d been going to pay for the gum, and he’d shown her the pound coin in his pocket.
And she’d believed him. She’d stood up and told Mr Cole that she believed him.
She was always on his side.
When she’d come to tuck him in that night, he’d been wide-eyed with wakefulness and fear, and he hadn’t been able to bear the lie any longer, and he’d told her the truth.
And she was angry with him. Angry and disappointed, which was infinitely worse. The next morning she’d marched him back there and made him apologize, and there had been some kind of punishment he couldn’t remember now. She’d done the right thing and he’d never stolen anything since. But what he remembered most was the way she’d spoken to Mr Cole when Ethan had lied and she’d backed him. He’d understood, in that moment, the full force of her maternal, mammalian urge to protect him. He’d seen it, again, the paternal variety, with Saskia’s dad. He hadn’t expected to see it last night and, no doubt, he would not have done. Perhaps it was that that he couldn’t bear. The thing with the chewing gum was the first time he had understood how it felt to disappoint his mother. He’d hated it. He had the feeling now.
He almost regretted leaving. He wouldn’t call it running away, although he hadn’t relished the thought of facing Nick and Heather this morning. Heather had looked at him with such ferocity. And Nick with such disappointment.
It was better for all of them if he wasn’t there.
And he wanted to see Saskia.
It was midday when he finally got to her house. It was an immaculately neat and tidy semi. He hadn’t been there for ages, but it looked like it always did. He lingered for a moment by the black railings at the front, his bravado wavering. When he’d played this out in his imagination, it was Saskia who answered the door. But maybe it would be her mother. She didn’t work. He had to hope it wouldn’t be her dad. He took a deep breath. Whoever answered the door, he had no option but to ring the bell. He couldn’t call, and he was here now. But, still, he glanced up at the first-floor window of Saskia’s bedroom, willing her to appear there and see him.
She didn’t. He opened the gate, walked up to the glossy blue door, and rang the bell. Took one pace back, and realized he was holding his breath.
No one answered.
He wondered if he’d pressed the bell hard enough. He noticed his hand was shaking when he pressed again.
Still nothing.
A door opened, but it was the neighbour’s house. A white-haired elderly lady, barely tall enough to see over the beech hedge that separated the properties, stared at him suspiciously.
‘Have you got a parcel?’ Her tone was accusatory.
‘What?’
She frowned, as if he were irritating. Spoke louder, and more slowly, like old people sometimes spoke to foreigners. ‘Are you delivering a parcel here?’
‘No. No.’
Her eyes narrowed, and she drew herself up formally. Behind her, he saw a Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the window. ‘May I ask, then, what your business here is?’
He did his best to sound unthreatening. ‘I’m a friend. A friend of Saskia’s. From school. I’ve come to see her.’
Her tone and expression softened at Saskia’s name. ‘Well, then, I’m sorry, young man, but you’ve missed them.’
‘They’re out?’ It seemed likely she’d know about the comings and goings. A ‘twitcher’, Mum would have called her. Always watching.
‘They’re away. On holiday. You must have got the day wrong, dear. They left yesterday.’