She was fine, in the house.
She was OK, and then we came out, and the air changed, and I could feel her anger, and I don’t know what to say. What do you say to someone who’s angry as mirror shards coming at you? Is there anything you can say when you know why they’re angry, and there’s nothing you can do to change it?
And it was your fault.
Or at least, it was your parents’ fault.
And now she’s living in that little matchbox house with all the matchstick furniture, and now I understand the darkness in the corners of her eyes.
‘Do you hate it?’
‘Hate what?’
‘Living there.’
She puts her hood up as hard, sleety rain begins to fall.
‘I don’t hate it. They’re OK.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What you sorry for?’
‘What happened.’
‘Not your fault,’ she says after a moment. Her breath steams out in front of her; she’s walking too fast.
‘I’m still sorry.’
‘Train’s leaving in about ten minutes,’ she says, digging her hands into her pockets.
I can’t read the expression on her face. She never looks down, never bends her head. She doesn’t hide. Ever.
‘Stop staring at me,’ she says after a while.
‘Sorry.’
‘Stop being sorry.’
‘OK.’
‘I mean, this is supposed to be an adventure,’ she says. ‘Haven’t you ever had an adventure before?’
‘Not like this. Not . . . not with a train.’
She turns to me. ‘Bavar, have you never been on a train?’
‘No.’
She looks at me a long time, till I want to lower my head. But I don’t. And then she grins.
‘Don’t stick your head out the window,’ she says. ‘It’ll get chopped off if we go through a tunnel.’
‘OK.’
The train’s packed. I jump on and stand by the door, hanging on to the yellow bar, and Bavar stands on the platform as other people stream around him.
‘What’re you doing?’ I shout.
He just looks at me.
A whistle rings out.
‘Get on the train!’ I let go of the bar and reach out for him. He swallows, pale and sweaty, and I grab his hand and pull and I swear the floor of the train drops as he gets on and he’s breathing too fast and his head is bowed because he’s too tall, he’s just too big for it all.
‘It’s OK,’ I say, though I’m really not sure it is.
He looks around, his eyes wild. There’s nowhere to hide on a crowded train, and the people around us are looking uncomfortable. They look at me, and at the space around him, frowning. I stare back at them until they look away.
‘There’s no air,’ he says.
‘Yes, there is. Or we’d all be dead by now. Just breathe.’
What am I going to do if he passes out? He’ll squash about a dozen people.
‘You wanted to do this,’ I say. ‘Remember?’
He looks at me, his eyes all clouded with about a million worries.
‘Look out the window or something; stop thinking.’
His mouth moves in a nearly-smile. After a while his grip on the post relaxes, just a little bit. The train picks up speed, rattling along, and we pass the big yellow house on the hill, and he watches it all, like he’s a million miles away in his head.
‘Never saw it from far away,’ he says, whispering it like he’s talking to himself. ‘Looks small.’
I’m so busy watching him, worrying about him, that I nearly forget what we’re doing, or why. I nearly forget why it’s important, why my stomach is full of butterflies. I nearly forget the last time I was on a train, with Mum and Dad, heading away on holiday, suitcases bundled into the luggage racks, a packet of pretzels on the little tray, Mum with her coffee, complaining about the little lid that made it harder to drink. Looking out of the window, the sea on our left. Dad lost in a book on the other side of the aisle, until we started pelting him with pretzels. The sun setting over the water.
‘Hey,’ Bavar says. ‘It’s snowing!’ He turns to me, and the light in his eyes winks out. ‘Are you OK?’
I nod.
‘You were with them.’
It’s not a question. He knows.
‘I miss them.’
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I can see that.’
And he doesn’t say any more. And I kind of like it, that he doesn’t ask what, or why. He doesn’t need to. After a while the snow comes down hard, and he watches it all like he never saw snow before, like he never saw anything before but monsters.
‘How do you like the train?’ I ask, after a while.
‘I like it,’ he says.
‘Me too.’
The university looms up over us, and it’s harder than I thought, to be here. I suppose I didn’t really think about it that much. It’s not like anything was going to stop me, and besides, I figured, it’s not like I was here very often. A couple of times, when he was working at the weekend, Mum and I would come into town, meet him for lunch. That was all. But I’d forgotten how it hits you, as you walk in.
Bavar is completely transfixed. He looks like he kind of fits here. He’s looking up, for the first time since I met him. I hassle him onward and end up sort of dragging him, because he can’t take his eyes off all the carvings, the wide doorways, the high, vaulted ceilings. He trips up the stairs, turns as he walks, looks out of the windows to the grassed courtyard below, and generally seems to have completely forgotten why we’re here.
‘Up here,’ I hiss at him, as he starts inspecting the portraits hung high up on the walls. ‘Come on, quickly, or we’ll get thrown out.’
‘Will we?’ His eyes snap into focus, looking a bit horrified.
‘Well, we might. Come on!’
I lead the way up a narrow staircase, thankful that it’s quiet. We might just get away with it. But when we get to Dad’s study, there’s a problem I hadn’t thought about.
‘Mr Duke,’ reads the brass sign on the door.
I stop and breathe.
Breathe.
‘What’s wrong?’ Bavar asks.
‘Nothing.’
I knock on the door, hoping whoever Mr Duke is won’t be in.
‘Come!’
I take a deep breath, and open the door. He’s changed it around. The desk is no longer in front of the window; it’s tucked away in a dark corner. Boxes are piled along the wall, and the shelves are empty of books.
‘Can I help you?’ The silver-haired man frowns, standing.
‘Mr Falstaff. His books.’ My voice isn’t working properly. I try again. ‘I was looking for one of Mr Falstaff’s books. This was his office.’
He leans into me. Bavar stands closer, looming over both of us.
‘Aren’t you a little young to be here?’ Mr Duke’s pale eyes squint as he looks from me to Bavar, and back again.
‘Where are all of his books?’
His brow furrows. I don’t want to be here any more. I don’t want to explain; I don’t want to see the pity in his eyes when I tell him who I am. He’s going to work it out in a minute anyway; I can tell by the way he’s staring at me.
‘The books,’ Bavar rumbles, stepping forward. ‘Tell us where they are.’