‘Watch it,’ Pete warns, but he no longer sounds so full of himself.
Theo spits blood out onto the floor.
‘Come on, try again,’ Theo goads him, beckoning him with both hands.
‘Leave it,’ one of Pete’s friends interjects. ‘Walk away,’ he urges Theo.
Theo’s expression slowly sobers. ‘You’re all a bunch of fucking pussies,’ he says deliberately, looking at each of Pete’s friends in turn.
‘What’s going on here?’ Mr Edwards, our mild-mannered Art teacher, emerges from the classroom doorway, coming all too belatedly to the party.
‘Nowt, sir,’ Pete answers quickly.
He and his cohorts make themselves scarce while Theo bends down to pick up the contents of his rucksack, hiding his face in the process.
‘Leah?’ Mr Edwards asks, and Theo shoots me a surprised look – he didn’t know I was here, but now there’s a warning in his eyes.
‘Theo dropped his bag,’ I reply, covering a drop of blood on the floor with my shoe. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll help. See you later, sir. Have a good weekend.’
‘Oh, okay, then. You too.’
Mr Edwards walks away as I swoop down to pick up the same textbook that I saw in Theo’s bag this morning. A lead pencil drawing of a maze takes up the entire back cover, complete with tiny, exquisitely detailed gargoyles at several of the dead ends. Their postures and expressions all differ, whether they’re standing, sitting, flying, screaming or grinning evilly.
‘Cool,’ I murmur, pausing to look.
Theo stands up and snatches the book from my grasp, stuffing it into his bag. He stalks off, angrily zipping up his bag as he walks.
I run to keep up with him. ‘Are you okay?’
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even acknowledge my presence. There’s no humour on his face, mock or otherwise. The blood on his lip has darkened in colour, already starting to scab.
We turn the corner of the building to see that a small crowd has gathered near the bus, a huddle of boys getting the lowdown on the scrap. Pete and Dave are amongst them, but both seem more frazzled than victorious. Pete’s stance is non-combative as Theo approaches, and then he holds up his hands, as if in a peace offering. Theo steps right up to him and gives him a hard push.
‘What the hell?’ Pete asks with outrage as he stumbles backwards. ‘Have you got a death wish?’
‘Maybe,’ Theo replies. ‘Give me my fucking cigarettes.’
This time when Theo shoves, Pete shoves back. But before the fight can escalate, George puts himself between them, his hands and arms raised in a bracing position.
‘Hey! What’s going on out there?’ the bus driver shouts, finally paying attention.
No one responds.
‘Give him his cigarettes,’ George commands Pete. ‘Now.’ He’s holding Theo back with force.
Pete digs into his pocket and pulls out the now-crumpled packet. George passes them to Theo, who takes a step backwards, out of George’s reach. He calmly gets out a cigarette and proceeds to light it.
‘Oi! No smoking on the bus,’ the driver calls.
Theo inhales deeply, eyeballs Pete like a lunatic, and then walks away from all of us in the direction of town.
‘Flipping ’eck,’ Pete grumbles, picking up his bag and boarding the bus along with Dave and the others.
But I stand and stare after Theo.
‘Are you two coming or what?’ the bus driver prompts.
You two?
I glance over my shoulder to see that George is standing with me. He meets my eyes, his expression serious, uncertain. We stare at each other for a strange, meaningful moment, and then I shake my head at the driver and set off after Theo.
A few seconds later, I hear the sound of George’s footsteps following.
Chapter 7 Now
When I come to, I’m in George’s arms, being carried like a baby across the farmyard.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I reply weakly, lifting my head and then deciding against it. I rest my cheek back against his broad shoulder. He smells clean, of washing powder, deodorant and shaving gel.
‘You fainted,’ he says.
‘I haven’t eaten much today.’
‘Fucking hell, Leah, there’s nothing left of you,’ he snaps, but his voice is racked with anxiety.
A thrill darts through me at hearing him speak to me like this: so familiar, so protective.
‘I’ve halved in size, you’ve doubled,’ I point out, feeling giddy with misplaced amusement.
‘It’s not funny.’
We reach the house and I look up at George’s face, cast in gold from the light spilling through the kitchen door and window. His rich brown hair has fallen down a little across his forehead and his eyes are partially obscured beneath curling shadows. I resist the urge to reach up and run my fingertips over his sharp cheekbones.
He shifts my weight to open the kitchen door and continues across the threshold.
‘Carrie?’ he calls towards the living room. When there’s no answer, he cranes his neck to look down at me. ‘Where’s your mam?’ His dark eyes are serious, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of how close he is.
‘She was getting a drink when I came outside.’
George kicks off his boots with some difficulty and I know I should instruct him to put me down, but I can’t bring myself to formulate the words. He carries me through to the living room and carefully lays me on the sofa, not even slightly out of breath as he removes my boots.
A moment later, all contact between us is broken. Disappointment surges through me, disconcerting in its intensity. He straightens up and stares down at me.
‘I’ll get you something to eat.’
He disappears back into the kitchen with my muddy boots in hand.
I feel light-headed as I listen to the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing, the jangle of cutlery and the whoosh of the fridge door. After a while, George returns with a sandwich.
Gingerly swinging my legs off the sofa, I sit up, accepting the plate with a thank you.
‘Did you make yourself one?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘You should.’
‘I ate at the wake.’
I nibble a corner of bread, my tastebuds coming to life at the contact with tangy cheddar and pickle.
George looks around. The living room isn’t that different to how it was when he lived here. It has the same dark wooden beams spanning the ceiling, the stone lintel above the fireplace, the big picture window, currently hidden behind the same heavy cream-coloured curtains. The grey sofas are new, as is the cream carpet, but even that has the familiar well-worn footpath created by too much foot traffic between the kitchen, dining room and hallway.
His eyes take in the wooden coffee table and its current, new position, pushed up against the wall.
‘The funeral directors brought Dad home yesterday,’ I explain flatly, recalling my numb shock at seeing the coffin resting in the middle of the living room. Mum wanted him here for one final night, and the memory of Jamie, Shauna, Preston and the other pallbearers carrying him out to the hearse earlier today makes my heart shatter all over again.
George sits beside me and rubs my back as I begin to cry, but it’s not enough: I miss being held.