STONES
POLLY JOHNSON
Authonomy
by HarperCollinsPublishers
For H, E and D
also
The ‘Amazing Writers’ and Authonomites
for all the reading.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
About Authonomy
About the Publisher
‘Admit you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘That’s all you have to do. It’s not hard.’
When you’re being held against a wall – feet almost off the floor and a hand gripping your throat – it’s always best to agree.
‘Yes, okay. You’re right; let go!’
The red face – spit round the mouth – came closer. Eyes squinted a hair’s breadth from mine and a horrible smell of stale beer bloomed in my nostrils. It would be okay though. He was right. I’d said it…
I walk fast, head tucked into the neck of my jacket like a tortoise. Adrenaline washes through me in a hot tide so I don’t feel the tang of ice in the sea-wind. The windows of the streets and squares glow yellow, and shop windows flicker to life as Brighton wakes. I hurry through it as though my feet are on fire, while commuters barge past me the other way, cups of stinking coffee held before them as shields. My heart surges in my chest and I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be part of it. I just need to reach the sea.
‘Lying little moron,’ the voice sneers again in my head. ‘You don’t mean that. You think you’re so smart…’
Voices from the dead. At night the past spills over into morning and I wake thinking it’s now. I lie there in the early light and remind myself it isn’t. It’s done. I tell myself this over and over, hoping that will make it true and the memories will fade like the Shrink Woman tells me. Until then, they wake me with a jolt each morning. Memories of my brother Sam. Of what he turned into…
…The hand tightened on my throat. Black and silver stars exploded on the edges of my vision. ‘I’m wrong,’ I said. ‘Sam! I agree!’ I tried to make my voice as loud as I could, so that maybe someone upstairs would hear me and come down. He slammed my head back against the wall – again, then again…
‘I’m going to kill you,’ he said.
I’ve walked so fast, I’m already crossing Grand Junction Road. The long green railings and pier entrance are ahead and after that there’s only the sky, streaked with orange and pink, and no sound but the shush of waves washing lazily over stones. I hurry down the steps to the promenade, move the rucksack to my other shoulder and slow down, listening to the suck and blow of the water and the hum of the wind. It’s quiet now… calm… until suddenly a voice breaks in – shocking as a slap: ‘Oi. Girl. You – Girl!’
I keep moving, twisting my head to find the speaker, and then I see him.
Over the road, in the shadow of the tall arches, are two men. One lies on a bench and hefts himself up to stare at me. His face is ghostly pale in the dimness, but it’s the shouter I fix my eyes on. He walks towards me with a strange scissoring stride – hair in a mad, red halo, his mouth a wet gape.
‘I saw God!’ he bellows, so close now that I hear him breathing. ‘I saw God, and he had a message for you!’
His eyes are red-rimmed and crusty, eyelashes yellow with some gungy mess, and the scent of him carried on the breeze is a ripe, biscuity stink. I look down and keep walking, my feet shooting in and out beneath me in a blur, but he keeps pace – one hand coming up to clutch my jacket.
‘You!’ he says again. ‘Girl!’
The fingers catch and hold – tightening – before they’re suddenly snapped away. The man with the pale face has him, his arm locked round the nutter’s neck, holding him back. For a second our eyes meet – his, the colour of moss on stones – and something unspoken passes between us. He smiles at me even as the red-haired man struggles and growls, and I get away while I can, breath tearing out of my chest and sweat cold on my forehead. I run until I feel pebbles under my feet and I’m safe on the beach. It’s just me now, but for a single grey gull riding the air currents, and far in the distance a hesitant bather stammering on the frozen stones. The day is full of madmen.
No one has followed me, but I keep moving all the same; hugging the rucksack close, not sure why I brought it. It’s an old bag – you can still see the faint printed outline of Barbie on one side – and it’s stuffed with emergency supplies for when I leave: a change