Читать книгу How to Rob a Bank - Том Митчелл - Страница 9

A few days after the fire, I saw Beth walking through the rec with a thick black sports bag over her shoulder. Harry trailed close behind, pulling a grey wheeled suitcase. It bounced across the uneven turf. He raised two fingers at me. I didn’t know where they were going or where they’d been.

I’d called out. ‘Do you want a hand?’

I wanted to say more, to apologise to Beth, but didn’t know which words to use. They all seemed wrong. And I had no idea how much Harry knew. I didn’t want to mug myself off.

‘Sorry for burning down your house, yo!’ would be a stupid thing to shout, however much I wanted to.

Beth stopped. She smiled as if a dentist had asked her to show off her gums, i.e. not very convincingly.

‘Really?’ I called, jogging to catch up.

‘It’s all good,’ she said. ‘We’re in a sweet flat with views across London.’

Harry stood at her shoulder, nodding like a broken doll.

Her home, the burnt one, had gone viral. Images of the tiny, fiery White House had swept through Twitter, with jokes about Trump and everything.

‘Tell him about your stuff,’ said Harry.

He’d swapped his nodding for a pulling-legs-off-a-spider grin.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Beth.

She dropped the sports bag. It wheezed as it hit the grass.

‘What about your stuff? Did you manage to save anything?’

Beth squinted but it may have been because of the sun. And the water in her eyes was probably due to hay fever too. Not that she ever got hay fever.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s all gone. My clothes. My books. My stuff. But, you know, someone said your possessions end up possessing you, so …’

Her voice tailed off. I felt that churning in my stomach, a Vindaloo guilt like I’d eaten a secret curry the night before.

‘At least you’ve got your phone,’ I said, because of all the things to lose, your phone’s got to be the worst.

‘Yeah,’ said Harry. ‘At least you’ve got your phone, Beth. Everything else is up in smoke, but you can still Instagram.’

Beth shushed Harry. Not only did it stop him talking but it also stopped him smiling.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I said because that’s what you say when bad things have happened. ‘Your mum and dad will work something out.’

(They had money, after all.)

‘Yeah,’ said Beth. ‘And it’s sunny out and the end of the summer is, like, weeks away and we’ve got sick views and I can always buy new clothes, so …’

But her heart wasn’t in her words.

I watched them fade from the rec, a panting Harry following like a squire to his knight. Why’d I mention her phone? How was that any help? The word on the street was that faulty wiring was the cause of the fire but my scented candle had so burnt down Beth’s house. I mean, the wick was still smoking when I’d thrown it in the bin. It was the cause of the fire, for sure. So sure that I’d spent the time between being picked up from the blazing home (a crowd had formed outside pointing at the flames licking up from the windows) and seeing Beth in the park expecting a knock at the door from the police or, worse, Beth’s angry dad. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even focus on Football Manager.

I’d destroyed Beth’s house and everything in it.

(But if she’d lost all her possessions, what was in the bags? I bet Harry was sucking up and, like, offering to lend her towels and all sorts.)