Kissed a sad goodbye - Deborah Crombie [24]
Cats were all right, he supposed—he’d never had one, never had a dog for that matter until Tess had come into his life—but there was nothing like a dog for making you feel less lonely.
He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. He wouldn’t bloody cry, not even here on his own, though these days he fought a constant battle against the tears that seemed to hover behind his eyelids, waiting to pounce on him at the most humiliating moment.
This morning had been a near thing when Duncan told him he’d have to go to work—it made him flush just thinking about the way his eyes had filled and his voice had quavered. But things hadn’t turned out as badly as he’d expected. He had liked the Major, rather to his surprise, because the old man hadn’t fussed over him—hadn’t patted him or said “poor boy” or looked at him in that pitying adult way. An adventure, the Major had called it as they set off on the tube to Wimbledon, and Kit had done his best to master his disappointment. But even though the tennis had been glorious, it hadn’t been the same without Duncan. It just wasn’t bloody fair.
Since the Major had left him here and gone down to his own flat, Kit had poked about at his leisure, examining books and CDs and the photos on the walls. He’d tried the telly remote control, zapping through the channels, but there was no Sky TV and he flicked it off in disgust. For a while he’d stood on the balcony, looking down into the bright blooms of the Major’s garden, but he’d come in again when the emptiness of it began to make him feel queer.
His face felt stretched and hot from sunburn and he realized suddenly that he was thirsty. Wandering into the kitchen, he opened the fridge and stared at the contents. A carton of orange juice, a pint of milk past its sell-by date, a cola, and two cans of lager. For a moment Kit was tempted—he was nearly twelve, after all, and he ought to take advantage of being on his own to do something grown-up—but there were only two beers and Duncan was sure to notice if one went missing. With a shrug he chose the cola, popping the top and tossing the ring into the rubbish bin. He rummaged idly through the kitchen drawers as he drank, thinking that if he found a fag he’d try that instead, but then he remembered he’d never seen Duncan smoke.
Why hadn’t Duncan rung him like he’d promised? Where was he now? It must be a murder—that’s what he did, after all, even though he didn’t like to talk about it. Kit tried to imagine a body, riddled with bullets like the ones in the videos he liked, but he couldn’t erase the one image he didn’t want to see—his mum lying so still on the kitchen floor in their cottage.
Throwing the empty cola can into the bin, he glanced at the clock—almost seven. He’d refused the Major’s invitation to come down to his basement flat for baked beans on toast and a game of cards, but he supposed he could change his mind. Anything was better than staying here on his own.
THE COACHES THAT WOULD TAKE THE children to the railway station waited at the curb in front of Cubitt Town School. Parents clustered round them, straining for a last glimpse of sons and daughters as the children were marshaled into untidy queues by the teachers. Many of the mothers were weeping, and the sight of his mum’s tear-streaked face caused Lewis almost as much embarrassment as the paper name tag pinned to the breast of his jumper. He felt like a bloody parcel, and a parcel without a destination at that, for they hadn’t been told where they were going. Many of the children had been bundled into winter coats and stank of sweat and damp wool; some of the smaller ones had already been sick from the heat and excitement.
The queue shifted suddenly as the children in the front began boarding the first bus, and a gasping moan rose from all the parents at once. Little Simon Goss’s mum burst into