Читать книгу Her Turn to Cry: A gripping psychological thriller with twists you won’t see coming - Chris Curran - Страница 16

Joycie is nine and a bit too old to cry so she’s trying to keep her chin from wobbling. She’s in the school playground all alone, or, at least, there are kids around her, but she can’t see them because the smog is so bad. They’re playing what they call ‘Hide and Seek in the Fog’ but is more like Blind Man’s Buff. Her friends are shouting her name and saying, ‘Cooee, come and get me.’ Now and then one of them taps her on the shoulder or screams close to her ear then disappears back into the surrounding mist.

She feels bad, her throat hurts, and she’s hot in her thick coat. The smog smells awful, smothering her in a wet blanket. She doesn’t want to play any more, and when the whistle goes she breathes again and heads for school. But she can’t tell which way to go. She turns round and round on the spot. And big sobs are coming out, making her ashamed to be such a cowardy custard.

‘Joyce Todd, what on earth are you doing out here?’

It’s Miss Hendry, and she grabs Joycie’s collar and pulls her along. And there are the lights and almost at once they’re inside school. She must be in trouble, but she doesn’t care, just wants to lie down on the cool floor of the corridor. Instead she leans against the wall and closes her eyes.

Then she feels Miss Hendry’s cold hand on her forehead. ‘Joyce, dear, where do you live?’

She parrots the address. At least this one in Acton is easy to remember because they stay in these digs every winter.

‘Ah, just down the road, that’s good. And Mummy will be home, I expect?’

She nods and Miss takes her hand again, and they are back in the playground. At the school gate Miss stops and points at the orange haloes of light gleaming through the fog.

‘Just keep on the pavement and follow the lampposts. Tell Mummy to put you to bed with a warm drink. And you’re to stay home tomorrow.’

Joycie’s legs are moving, one foot floating after the other over the shiny pavement. She can see the lamppost in front of her, its light a wavering orange moon. When she reaches it she holds the post for a moment then pushes on towards the next one.

Mrs McDonald, the landlady, opens the door at her knock. ‘You’re early, ducks, what’s up?’

‘Sent me home.’

Mrs McDonald’s hand rough on her cheek. ‘No wonder. You’re burning up. Well your mum’s in, so up you go.’ A laugh that’s more like a bark. ‘She’ll be pleased to see you so early, my love. I think she gets lonely on her own all day.’ Then she’s gone, back to the kitchen, laughing at something as she goes. She must have a funny programme on the wireless.

The stairs rear in front like a mountain, but Joycie pulls herself up by the banisters. At the door to their rooms she taps and taps, then calls her mum, but quietly because they mustn’t annoy Mrs McDonald or wake up Mr Grant next door, who does night work.

But her mum doesn’t come, and Joycie is too hot and tired to knock again. She pulls off the thick coat and spreads it on the floor so she can lie on it and rest her head on the cool lino.

‘Bloody hell, Mary, it’s your nipper.’

Mr Grant’s voice, but coming from their own doorway. A sickening feeling as the world lurches and she’s up in the air, held over Mr Grant’s shoulder. Hot skin against hers and stinky sweat.

Mum’s voice: ‘Bring her in. And for God’s sake be quiet, will you. I bet old McDonald’s down there earwigging again. Then you’d better go.’

She’s in bed, and Mum’s giving her warm milk, but it tastes bad, and Mum smells funny too: a bit like Mr Grant. And it’s all wrong anyway, because Mum is only wearing her slip, even though it’s the middle of the day.