Six Bedrooms (8 page)

‘Dar-cy, you dick!' Jordan screamed at him, shoving him back.

‘I just want to talk to my girlfriend,' said Darcy. He stepped round and stood in front of Jordan, so she couldn't get past. ‘Is that okay?'

Noor took his hand and tried to draw him away. ‘I'll talk to you later,' she said to Jordan.

‘Tell me how it goes,' said Jordan. She was sneering at Darcy, and getting her phone out. She started texting as they walked away.

‘How what goes?' said Darcy.

‘Nothing,' said Noor.

‘Why weren't you answering your phone last night? I had something I really wanted to tell you.'

He could hardly hear Noor, who was walking beside him with her head down, that mass of black hair shining in the sunlight.

‘What?'

‘My father said I had to study,' she said again. Her voice was like a little tune; up, down.

‘You could have emailed me.' He'd set up a Hotmail account just so Noor could get round the Facebook ban, even when her phone was switched off.

‘Dad switched off the wireless.'

‘That bastard,' said Darcy, but then stopped himself. Noor hated it when he swore. They were running late now. ‘I'll have to tell you at lunch. Don't sit with the girls. We'll go over to the rocks.'

Noor pulled her hand out of his and Darcy stood watching her as she walked away. When it came to lunchtime she had gone – someone said to the library, someone else said home, and she wasn't answering her phone.

 

That night he took everything out of the suitcase under his bed to check it. He had toilet paper: ten rolls. He'd been taking it out of the weekly shopping, just one at a time, so his mother wouldn't notice, for about two months. There was a cheap china shop in Kingswood where he'd bought some plates and mugs. It had been
difficult to know how or whether to store food. Baked beans he knew would last quite a while, but then he did not know if Noor liked them. Tinned tomatoes, bread-crumbs: these were the things his mother bought all the time and didn't miss. His father had once seen him looking for the use-by date on a tin of tuna. He hadn't said anything to Darcy, just stared, with that limitless contempt he had always available to him.

He got up to check his email again. Still nothing. He looked again at the fruit-picking website. It looked like a five-year-old had set it up – crappy formatting, for one thing, and half the links were broken. Still, they'd answered his enquiries and it looked like it was going to be pretty easy to book in.

He sent another email to Noor, marked it high priority, texted her again
call me NOW!!!!!
and looked at himself in the mirror. He was so tall now that he had to step back to see all of himself. He leant in to check his pimples. He pushed his dark hair back off his face to see how high his hairline was, the way Evan did, then swept it forward again. He let his head drop forward, tilted it, stared out from under his fringe. His phone sang and he turned and tripped over his chair trying to get to it, hitting his cheek on the edge of the desk.

‘Fuuuuuck!' He sat up, cupping both hands over his cheekbone. ‘Fuck, fuck, fucking hell!' It hurt so much
his eye wouldn't stop watering. He put one hand over the eye, leant against the desk, and fumbled for the phone with the other. He read the message out of his good eye.
Recharge now to win a prize.
Savagely, he texted Noor again.

After his face stopped hurting he got his suitcase out and went through it again. He got his list out of his desk and checked it. He wrapped the tins of tomatoes in t-shirts so they wouldn't make a noise when he finally snuck out. He hefted the weight of one. If you tied a knot in the t-shirt you could kill someone with it. Or knock them out. He got up to look at himself. His cheekbone was bright red, like someone had rubbed lipstick into it. Great.

Finally at three am he went to bed, though he couldn't stop himself sitting up one last time to glance at the screen of his laptop, just in case Noor was pulling an all-nighter and had just then decided to take a break. When he lay down his cheek hurt if he let it touch the pillow, so he had to turn away from the laptop. Its blue light was like moonlight.

It was past eleven when he woke up. He was still holding the phone, hot in his hand. Nothing there. He dropped it on the desk, ran his finger over the mousepad of his laptop. Nothing there either. Her father must have put her in total lockdown. Maybe he'd heard about the plan. What if Noor had told him? He looked at himself
in the mirror. His red cheekbone had turned darker overnight, as had all the skin around his eye. And it looked very, very cool. Noor would probably cry, as she had done when he'd been knocked out, just for a second, on the football field. He went into the bathroom where the light was brighter to really get a look at it. His hair was a mess. He looked tired and beaten.

He didn't shower – didn't want to spoil the hair – put on a t-shirt and shorts and his sneakers, and went downstairs. He could hear the twittering of noisy miners, and his father swearing at his mother in the garden.

All the breakfast things had been put away.
From now on
, said a note on the table,
if you're too late, you miss out.

He took the cornflakes packet out of the cupboard, got the milk and a bowl and spoon. He shoved the note into his pocket and sat down at the table. There was a scrape at the back door.

‘What are you doing?' said his father. He was wearing his gardening hat and gloves.

‘Having breakfast,' said Darcy, and in his head added,
you motherfucking arsehole.

‘Didn't you see my note?'

‘Nup,' said Darcy,
you cocksucking note-leaving loser.

Darcy's father stepped forward and seized Darcy's hand as it brought his spoon up to his mouth, so that the milk spilt on to Darcy's t-shirt.

‘For fuck's sake,' said Darcy, and dropped the spoon, wrenching himself away from his father. ‘For fuck's sake.'

‘You can wait till lunchtime.'

Darcy stood there, breathing heavily, wiping the milk off his t-shirt.

‘If you don't have the common courtesy to join us for breakfast then you don't deserve it.' His father was sweating, cold waxy beads of it on his white, clean-shaven face. He had a cleft chin, which Darcy had not inherited but Evan had. Hence, thought Darcy suddenly, like he'd been taken over by an English teacher, hence the goatee.

‘Where's Mum,' said Darcy.

‘Cleaning the gutters,' said his father. ‘Waiting for you to help her.'

‘Fuck you,' said Darcy and, before his father could do anything, ducked past him and out into the yard. He ran down their street, turning once to see his mother standing on top of the garage, holding a broom and wearing a big hat, watching him. She was terrified of heights. He stopped himself giving her the finger. It was hardly her fault.

It was hot, the kind of day that told you it was going to be a long summer. Darcy started out across the dry grass of the park. In a few weeks the whole expanse would be yellow and ant-ridden. No one had thought to plant
trees, so there were no birds. By the time he reached the other side, his t-shirt was damp with sweat.

He'd never been inside Noor's house. There was no way her father would have allowed it. There was a white car parked in the driveway. He stopped, looking at it, and swallowed. Noor's mother and sister didn't drive. He'd sent her a text on the way. If he was lucky she would be able to sneak out round the back and they could head out together, so he could finally tell her about the fruit-picking.

She wasn't waiting outside. Darcy peered over the fence into the back garden, but there was no one there. The front door was open, but the screen door was locked. Darcy gathered his courage, pressed the doorbell and tried to see down the dark hallway. A radio was playing. At first, silence, then the sound of a chair being pushed back, and heavy feet on the wooden floor. He clenched his fists by his sides. A man opened the screen door, which creaked. He looked very like Noor – darker-skinned, and heavier, but with the same shaped mouth, the same low, deep hairline.

‘I came to see Noor,' said Darcy, feeling his voice jump.

‘I'm her father,' said the man. He was staring at Darcy, staring at his black eye.

‘I'm Darcy. A friend of hers.'

‘I know who you are.'

‘Can I –'

‘She doesn't want to see you.'

Darcy didn't think, just said, ‘You bastard.'

Noor's father moved slightly and Darcy stepped back, watching to see if he lifted his hand. But he just looked at Darcy and didn't say anything.

‘It's wrong. You're repressing her. It's sexist,' Darcy said.

‘You mean oppressing.'

‘You know what I mean. She's scared to talk to me.' Darcy wiped sweat off his forehead, blinking it out of his sore eye.

Noor's father raised his eyebrows.

‘This is Australia. You can't tell her who to go out with. You can't arrange her marriage.'

Noor's father snorted, and Darcy went on, ‘She's free to do whatever she wants.'

‘You're right. This is Australia. And if she doesn't want to see a boy, she doesn't have to.'

Darcy took a breath. It was so hot. The backs of his legs were burning. If Noor's father would move back a bit, he could come forward and be under the shade of the awning, but he stayed where he was, one hand resting on the door frame.

‘She'd see me, but she's scared of you,' said Darcy. ‘You've terrified her.'

Noor's father looked down at his feet, and then back up. ‘No,' he said, almost regretfully. ‘
You've
terrified her.'

Darcy gulped. He felt sweat running down the middle of his back. ‘What do you mean?' he said at last.

‘You've scared her. She doesn't want to see you anymore. It's too much. She's not ready.'

‘She said –'

‘What she said and what she thinks is different. She's too young, and she doesn't know how to tell you to leave her alone.' Noor's father didn't seem to be feeling the heat at all. He was wearing a white collarless shirt that looked bright against his brown skin.

‘But. I love her.'

‘You don't know what love is. You had an idea. Like a – like a –' it was the first time Noor's father's English had failed him. ‘Like a shape, a mould. A mould. And then you chose someone and tried them to force them into it.'

Darcy tried to say something, but Noor's father went on. ‘Next time, you might know better. Next time you choose someone, you let them be.'

Darcy looked down. He couldn't believe it. His eye was killing him; tears were coming out of it.

‘And now go home.'

Darcy tried to wipe his eye without hurting it. He took a step back.

‘Good boy,' said Noor's father, and closed the door.

Darcy turned and walked away, and then went back. He could hear Noor's father's voice in the house, and a woman answering him. He stood still a moment, his heart right up high, banging in his throat, and then slipped round the side of the house. He put his hand through the hole in the gate, feeling for the lock. He slid it sideways. It gave a little scream, and he went still again, but no one heard.

Noor's bedroom was at the back of the house. He knew this; she'd told him, in case they had to get away earlier than they'd planned. She'd even taken a photo of it with her phone. She would be in there studying, for sure. Her father had probably locked the door on her.

The window was open. Noor was at her desk, her laptop open. Quietly as he could, he tapped on the glass.

Noor looked up, and started so violently that her knees hit the desk. Darcy froze, and put his finger to his lips. He closed his eyes for a second, staying calm, then opened them and beckoned Noor over.

She shook her head, and stood up, making for the door.

‘Noor,' Darcy hissed. ‘Noor! Come back! I have to tell you something!'

Noor stopped, irresolute, and Darcy beckoned again. ‘Come here.'

She visibly took a deep breath, and came over to him. She slid the window a little higher, but not high enough for him to get in, and stepped back a bit. Then Darcy saw that her laptop was open at a clothing website. Her father had connected the wireless again. ‘What the fuck are you doing?' he said. ‘Why didn't you answer my emails?'

‘My dad told me not to,' she whispered, looking terrified. She was staring at his eye.

‘We've got to get away. Sooner than I thought. Your dad's a fucken monster. I had no idea. We can go now, we'll get a hotel, I've got enough money.'

‘What about the exams?'

‘Come closer, I can hardly hear you.' He wanted, actually, to touch her – particularly her hair. He wanted to see if he could smell her, that sweet smell her hair had. She wouldn't, though. She stood where she was, a good metre away from the window.

‘Is your bag still packed?' He'd never seen anyone look so frightened, not even his mother. His heart went out to her.

She shook her head.

‘Did he find it?'

She shook her head again.

‘Well, what the fuck is wrong with you? Fucking answer me! Do something! We've got to get you away!'

‘I don't want to,' she said, her head down.

‘What?'

‘I don't want to.' She started to cry. ‘I want to do my exams. Dad's been helping me with Physics. I can't do it without him.'

Darcy slumped on to his knees on the hot concrete of Noor's backyard, put his head against the bricks. He looked up, and Noor had come closer to the window – she was right there, wiping her eyes. ‘Sorry,' she sobbed.

Darcy pushed himself off the brick wall, balancing for a second in a squat, then stood up. ‘I give up on you,' he said tiredly.

Noor nodded.

‘Some people just don't have the guts.'