Louis Beside Himself (7 page)

Oh.

It is very poor, depending mainly on wheat farming and
the herding of goats and sheep
.

Now I'm smelling spiced lamb. There are cooking fires in a forest, high in the hills, a night breeze bringing voices (not lemons and sea spray) and the bleat of goats from the plains below. Old and young people sit cross-legged around the fire, light jumping across their thin faces, a young boy leaping up, a grandma hauling him back from the flames, scolding. Now she's laughing, her old face cracking open like a walnut, her eyes sparkling with firelight. I wondered if my mother would have looked like her when she got old, so wise and kind, hauling her children out of fires at just the right moment, wrapping them up in her shawls when the winter wind blew . . .

What was that?

There was a sound – the crack of dry leaves underfoot. It wasn't inside my head. It came from outside my window. And what about that? A swish of leaves, another crackle. ‘Just a possum,' I whispered.

I wrote
possum
, to make it real. Did they have possums in Afghanistan? I tried to think about the soft grey possum we'd found one night in the laundry, perched in terror on the top wire of the clothes horse. Rosie had screamed and said it was a rat.

I tried to think about possums warming themselves near cooking fires in ancient forests, because I read just yesterday that it's impossible to carry two thoughts in your head at once, so you might as well think about something soft and cute, instead of terrifying. I could see the possums all warm and comfortable, and then they became large white friendly goats, which you're more likely to see in Afghanistan, and I got to thinking how hard it would be to have a pet goat and know that one day you were going to eat it. I mean if
you
didn't, your sister probably would.

I was still thinking about goats when I got up to cross the hall to the bathroom. Then I heard it again. The definite crack of twig or leaf. Now I really needed to pee. I didn't switch the light on in the bathroom, I don't know why. Sometimes the dark rules and it seems wrong to disobey.

After I peed, I crept out into the kitchen. Silence. I took a step towards the window. Bright moonlight was silvering the lawn. Deep breath—

—but the air stuck in my throat. A shadow shot across the moonlight, quick as a bird. A human shadow. Tall, fast, unfamiliar. Too tall for Singo or Hassan. And too quiet.

A footstep scraped on the concrete porch. That was no bird, or possum. I ducked back against the wall, behind the kitchen door, trying to make myself thin as a pencil. The latch on the window shuddered, then clicked.

I watched the window slide open. My heart felt as if it would rocket through my chest.

How could this be happening? A burglar, just like in the movies – the thrillers I'd stopped watching because I could never get to sleep afterwards. And just two weeks ago, hadn't Mrs Livid Next Door had a break-in? Her precious bracelet, from her mother who'd been born a whole century ago, had gone missing. I tried to think . . . an emerald bracelet, she'd said, and the burglars must have been very professional because the window hadn't even been smashed.

I tried to slow my breathing, but my heart wouldn't shut up. Surely it was too loud?
Thud, thud
, like a shovel coming down into packed earth, a grave of mud . . . I was going to be buried alive in this silence.

There was a sharp grunt, and the shadow outside suddenly became a solid figure on the windowsill. It teetered there for a heartbeat, then – oh! It tumbled forward onto our own polished floorboards, crashing against the kitchen table—

—just a metre from my big toe.

This couldn't be real. I stretched my eyes wide open, to make sure I wasn't dreaming. But the person was still there, crouched over, hands on his knees as if he'd been winded. I couldn't see his face. He was breathing hard, a black cap pulled down over his forehead.

The sweat was running down my back, a small creek between my shoulder blades. Then I heard a moan. The burglar was clutching his ankle. My eyes fixed on his boots – black, head-kicking, steel-capped boots.

Now
, hissed Dad's voice in my head.
While he's down on
the floor. You'll have the advantage of surprise. Get him on
his back, hook his legs under your arms in a Jericho hold
. . .

But my legs had frozen. I couldn't move. My heart was hammering so hard, my head floated off into the dark. I'd have given anything not to be there. Oh, to be falling off a skateboard, dribbling a basketball, even getting lost looking for Agnes. Any second I'd be discovered and then the burglar would have the advantage. Maybe there was time to run out back through the hallway. But what if he chased me?

Jump on him
, said Dad. No, the burglar was getting up, or . . . what was he doing? He'd turned around, was slowly inching up to the windowsill, just his head peeping up, looking out the window. At what?

Get him from behind, do a dropkick
. But my legs felt like air, wobbly air. As if I wasn't inside my body at all.

I was
B
ESIDE
M
YSELF
.

So that's what it means, I thought, almost calmly. Mrs Livid from Next Door was always saying, ‘I was
so
upset I was
beside
myself.'

Just then the burglar turned, his face in profile catching the moonlight. Thin, young, worried. Lips pressed together in a grim line.

What a lugubrious expression he's wearing
.

The silence changed. It became charged somehow, electric. I suddenly wondered if I'd spoken out loud. The words seemed to ring in the air.

‘Well, look what
you're
wearing.' The burglar was pointing at my head.

My hand shot up. I'd forgotten about Grandad's beret. My cheeks blushed hot. But surely that was the least of my worries? My heart was rioting against my ribcage.

‘I'm beside myself,' I said, trying to explain.

‘Pleased to meet you both,' the burglar replied, sarcastically.

There was a short, surprised silence. We studied each other. Then I couldn't help myself.

‘You know, you can't really wear
lugubrious
like a . . . like a hat.'

The burglar glanced at the window again. ‘Are you the only one home?'

I nodded. What an idiot. I should I have said my enormous father was asleep in bed because he does shift work and any moment now he'd be waking up to get his tea and then he'd be off to the police station because he was a sergeant soon to be promoted to detective as he'd just captured his fifth burglar that month.

The burglar looked relieved. As he lifted his cap to smooth his hair, his bomber jacket swung open. I saw a glint of steel in the pocket of his shirt. God! What do I do now? He was probably a serial killer who enjoyed talking with his victims first, like a cat playing with a mouse. He might be a serial killer with . . . something that wasn't quite right.

I looked closer . . . a serial killer with bosoms?

Was I dreaming again? The burglar ran his hand through his hair. Short reddish-blonde spiky hair. I peered at his face. No beard shadow, fine features, large brown eyes like a possum, soft pale skin . . .

‘You're a girl!' I told him. Her.

She put her cap back on, and grinned. ‘Yeah, but don't let it get around.'

Then we both heard it – the metallic snap of the front gate. The burglar jumped.

‘That'll be my friends coming back from their various sporting activities,' I said, rolling my eyes to show my interests were much more mature. Then I stopped. Just because this burglar didn't mind being corrected about her use of
lugubrious
, which was actually very generous and broadminded of her, there was no reason to think she was harmless.
Never be fooled
, Dad said,
by the many disguises your
opponent might adopt
.

But the burglar wasn't reassured by the mention of my friends. ‘Ssh!' she hissed, and put her finger to her lips.

Silence. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. If the gate had closed behind Hassan and Singo, wouldn't they be talking and laughing? Or, if it was Dad, wouldn't he be through the front door by now with,
Why is it so dark in
here? Where are my wrestling buddies?

No, definitely, the silence was wrong.

The burglar suddenly pushed her face into mine. ‘Start yelling at me,' she whispered.

‘But why . . . what should I say? I mean, you kind of deserve a good talking-to, breaking in here, giving me a dreadful fright but . . .'

‘Say,
How dare you break into my house, I'm calling the
police!
Stuff like that. Look, there's someone after me, you'll just have to believe me. Jimmy's mean as hell – he'll do anything.'

There was a footfall on the concrete, and another right after it. A short hard word, spat out like something poisonous.

‘Jimmy?' I whispered.

She nodded. ‘Go on,
now
!'

‘How dare you break into my house!' I squeaked.

She slapped a hand over my mouth. ‘Talk like a man, can't you? You sound like a frightened mouse!'

That's what I seemed to her – a frightened little mouse.

My throat closed up. My voice box was empty. I just sort of stared at the burglar, helplessly. I had a choking feeling, and I didn't know if I was breathing or not.

Was Jimmy the serial killer? I was paralysed. Weak. Not even a mouse, more like one of those little squishy transparent animals in the sea without backbones, just wanting to glide along the bottom, leading an unchallenging invisible life.

I couldn't find my voice.

I couldn't find my words.

‘. . . er,' I gasped weakly. I tried again. ‘Err-
ugh
!' My voice squeaked then dropped down to my feet, like a duck in hunting season. What
was
this?

The burglar swore and pulled me over to the window, shoved my back against the glass. ‘Stand on tiptoes, make yourself taller,' she hissed. ‘Fluff up your beret.'

I couldn't help noticing she smelled sweet and tangy, like mandarins.

I was trying to find my feet when a voice – fierce and male and full of strange vowels – filled the room.

‘
What do ya mean by ut, ya dirty little thief? Comin' enta
m' house like thus? Who invited ya? I'll 'ave t' chop ya, d'ye
hear me, bro? Chop ya enta little pieces.

' What the? The girl's mouth was moving but the voice seemed to be coming from somewhere else . . . Suddenly there was a bang like gunshot and the kitchen chair flew from the girl's hand and hit the hall door. Now she gestured frantically at another chair, wanting me to throw it, too.

I picked it up shakily. My arms felt weird – as if they didn't belong to me – but I lifted the chair high above my head and swung it around, ready to throw. I don't know what happened then – my hands were slippery with sweat – but the chair slid out of my grip and fell hard, crashing right onto the girl's foot.

She let out a cry, and stumbled over the upturned chair.

I sprang to help her up, but she flicked my hand out of her way. She leapt up, dragging her bad ankle behind her.

God, now I was dangerous, as well as useless.

‘
I'm sorry
,' the girl yelped, her voice high-pitched. ‘
I was
just hungry, I only wanted a piece of bread, I'm not a thief,
I'm a girl, just a hungry girl!'

‘
Aarrgh, ya think ya can make an udiot of me like thes
bro? What do ya take me fa'? I'm gunna chop ya!'

The girl pulled me savagely away from the window, pushing me up the hall. She pounded the wall with her fist –
bang
,
barff
,
boom!
She sounded like a bunch of cowboys brawling in a bar.

Then she stopped suddenly and lifted her finger for quiet, which wasn't necessary as I seemed to have lost my voice forever. In the silence we heard feet running away up the path, and the slam of the gate. Then nothing.

Jimmy was gone.

I should have been relieved. But I felt like I'd been run over.

How are you going to protect your family if you can't even
stand up for yourself?
said Dad sadly.

The girl picked up the chair and slumped down on it. She shook her head at me. I'd only just met her, but I knew a look of bitter disappointment when I saw it. And it matched exactly the look I'd seen so often on my father's face.

7
STRUCK DUMB

I stared at the floor. There wasn't much to see, what with the moonlight now barely diluting the dark. I was glad. I didn't want anyone looking closely at me, at my squishy, spineless self.

‘Where's the light switch?' The girl was feeling the walls, searching.

I sighed and reached over near the door, snapping it on. We looked at each other. I was the first to look away.

She groaned, heavily. She was probably thinking that of all the males home alone in the world, wasn't it her bad luck to have found the most cowardly. I sneaked a glimpse at her. She had her foot up on her knee and was examining her ankle.

‘Pffaw,' she whispered. How would you spell that, I couldn't help wondering. There was the problem of the silent ‘w'. She was touching her ankle bone gingerly. Her face was scrunched up, looking lugubrious again. I felt a stab in my chest. Her ankle must really hurt. I remembered when I'd sprained mine last year, stumbling into a bandicoot hole, and how the needling pains had made it feel burning hot. And she didn't even have a dad there with a cold packet of peas to put on it.

‘Is it sprained?' I blurted.

I'd found my voice again – now that it wasn't necessary, of course.

‘Nah, don't think so. Just twisted it a bit. I've had worse – that bang on the foot didn't help.' She gave me a lopsided grin. ‘Are you okay?'