Innocence (5 page)

Gingerly I climb aboard and step down into the cabin.

“Jay,” I say, gripping his ankle lightly, but he ignores me and doesn’t uncurl.

His still has his school uniform on, the knee of his trousers ripped already and he’s missing a shoe.

And then I get it.

“Jay,” I say again, louder this time, the edge to my voice unmistakable.

Dad is still in the bathroom at the end of the cabin, so he doesn’t hear me swear as Jay pulls his hands away from his face revealing a black eye, bruised down to his cheekbone, and a bloody lip.

I should have been there.
Fuck
. I should have known this would happen.

I can’t meet his eyes. I go into the kitchen and search through the drawers for a facecloth. Rinsing it through with warmish water from the kettle, I hand it to him and sit down on the floor near his head.

“You’ve still got blood round your mouth,” I say, barely trusting my voice above a whisper. “Who was it?”

There’s no point in asking what happened.
I know
what happened. Even though he’s quiet and doesn’t announce his difference, he can’t hide it either. Some group of thugs probably saw him as an easy target and jumped him.

“I’ll get them to write their names on a list next time, shall I?” he hisses, wincing, but there is no anger in his expression, only hurt.

I can’t bear it.

“Was worried about you when you didn’t come home,” he murmurs.

I touch my hand against his. “I went to a traveler camp with someone from work. Couldn’t get home.”

“The shower is on, Christopher.” Dad fills the doorway.

I run my hand through Jay’s hair as I drag myself up off the floor.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you like this again,” I mutter, wishing it wasn’t a lie, but knowing however determined I am to be there when he gets out of school from now on, I won’t always be there to stop them.

T
HE
HEAT
of the water needles my skin, making my head throb even more intensely. Too tired and weak to stand, I curl on the hardwood grate that lies across the floor of the cubicle, shower spray glancing off my back and soaking the horrible green carpet that covers the rest of the bathroom. I wish I could rip the fucking carpet out, chuck the whole stinking mess out the skylight and into the river.

I don’t know what the worse part of today has been. I only know for certain I can’t undo any of it, and I want to. I want the sensation of Finn’s fingers inside me gone. I want Jay’s face untouched. But maybe I do know what’s worse, what hurts most of all, and I just want to deny that it affects me like this—it’s been ten years since she left. I want Malachi to never have said her name, to never have caused me to think of what she was like, because I can’t even remember her face anymore. The harder I try, the further it obscures, like a fading photograph soaked in the bitter waters of time.

I step out of the shower, flick the water heater off, and wrap one of the worn, thin towels round my shoulders. I catch my pale reflection in the mirror by the sink and look away in disgust.

My hair is too long. It’s been too long since I last hacked at it with the blunt, unwieldy scissors we keep in the kitchen drawer.

The impulse to cut it now is greater than any I remember. Dad has a battery-powered electric razor in his wash bag.

I run the tap so that he won’t hear what I’m doing until it’s too late and start to shave my hair off, watching detachedly as clumps of blond fill up the brown sink. It’s not very neat, a few crazy tufts stick up at the center back where I can’t reach too well, but the hair is gone. Jay will help me neaten it up. It pleases me how different I look now—the shape of my face more apparent, less boyish, thinner, angular. I shave the fine hairs along my jaw and around my lips, the hair there too patchy to form a beard. The thought of me with a beard is faintly ridiculous anyway. I stare at my reflection, and for the first time in a long while, I wonder if Jay and I would have looked more alike if the accident had never happened.

T
HE
DAY
dawns bright and clear. It’s hard to believe this is only the fourth day since we moored here.

I’ve slept in Jay’s bunk again. It’s getting to be a habit. Now we’re awake he keeps running his hand over my head, stroking my hair. He likes the feel of it tickling his palm, he says. Dad’s not seen it yet.

Eventually, the movement starts to irritate me, and I pin him down, my knee pushing him into the mattress, my hand tickling him until he yells.

I release him and get up, going out on deck to check if the gray saloon is still there. When I see it is, I go back into the cabin and turn on the stove to make a black coffee and a couple of pieces of toast to take over.

Malachi is slumped against the passenger window, his arms loosely wrapped around Maisie’s middle, his bare feet resting on the driver’s seat, the both of them deeply asleep. I’m conflicted about whether or not to wake him. Maybe I should just let him sleep his hangover off. Minutes pass and I just stand there uselessly holding the cup of coffee and the plate of toast, my stomach flip-flopping weirdly, warmth swirling through my gut like eddies in a stream.

I don’t want to feel like this.

And even though I’m desperately trying not to, I notice a thousand little details that my mind files away for later: the perfect curve of his eyelashes against his cheek; the full pout of his mouth and the tiny diagonal scar that cuts through his upper lip; the faint shadow of his beard; the small diamond stud in his left ear, mostly covered by his almost black hair—though there are a few steely-gray hairs and lighter coppery-brown ones that are not really noticeable unless you’re staring; the hint of a tattoo on the side of his neck, black ink disappearing under the collar of his T-shirt; the muscles of his arms, defined even at rest, dark with hair; his fingers…. I glance up and see his eyes are open, watching me. Flustered, I tap on the window, cringing to my core.

“Thought you might want some breakfast,” I nearly stutter as he winds the window down.

Squinting, he takes the coffee and shifts round, dislodging Maisie, who yaps in indignation.

“What time is it?” He yawns, glancing at my hair, his eyes fixing on it fractionally longer than seems polite.

“’Bout seven, maybe quarter past.”

He nods.

“Feed that to the birds,” he says, gesturing at the toast. I’m grateful he doesn’t mention my haircut.

By the time I’ve put the plate down, he’s downed the coffee. He hands me the empty cup.

“I could take Maisie for a walk for you.” I don’t want him to go just yet.

“Got work to do, kiddo,” he says grimly, starting the car.

His whole attitude different now he’s sober. He glances at me one last time, and he drives away.

T
HE
WRECKERS
arrive Friday morning. The six of us not driving or directing them sit on the sun-bleached garden walls of the houses opposite to watch.

Even though he’s picked me up in the mornings, things have been really strange between Finn and I since I left the camp without meeting Chase. So I’m surprised when he walks over, hands in pockets, to stand next to me as the huge steel wrecking ball prepares to tear through the building. The sound it makes as it swings through the air is a low, hollow wail, the sound of air expelled from a dying body. It hits the bricks with an explosive crunch. It’s all quite depressing really.

“You still interested in that bit of extra work, kid?” he asks.

It’s interesting Finn’s back to calling me kid, all formal and friendly, like he’s never had his finger up my arse and come all the harder because of it. Since that night I’ve been thinking more and more about leaving.

We watch the bay window collapse onto what was once the front lawn. Shane leaps around in the cab of the wrecker as though it’s a personal victory.

“Yeah,” I answer. Whatever work they have planned can’t be harder than this week has been.

“Okay. We’re meeting tonight at eleven. I’ll pick you up.”

Briefly I wonder how I’m going to get off the boat without Dad knowing. I can’t imagine what work Finn can possibly have planned for so late, but I nod all the same, determined to do this.

“Are we meeting at the camp?”

It’s hard to admit, but I want to see Malachi again, if only to ask him how he knew my mother, and I have no other reason to go there unless Finn or one of the others invites me.

“No.” Finn says shortly.

I watch the rest of the demolition alone.

Since Jay got beaten up, I’ve been leaving the site early and getting a lift with one of the salvage trucks across town to his school to meet him when it finishes. Dad agreed to this arrangement and squared it with Bosco.

Today I sit on the grassy common opposite the school, looking out for trouble as the bell rings and hundreds of kids stream out the main entrance. Jay is still bruised up pretty bad, but even if he wasn’t, I’d spot him a mile off. Head down, uniform hanging off his skinny frame, bag he managed to scavenge from lost property dragging on the floor. Tiredly he crosses the road and flops down on the grass next to me.

I put my arm round his shoulders and give him a quick one-armed hug, expecting him to shrug me off, embarrassed that I’d do that in front of everyone, but if anything, he leans in closer.

“Anyone give you any shit today?” I ask, watching him lie back on the grass and stare up at the sky.

“Depends on what you’d classify as shit,” he responds gloomily.

“I don’t know why you won’t tell me who it was jumped you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I don’t normally harp on about stuff, but it’s bothering me that he won’t say.

There are several little groups hanging around, guys bigger than me, laughing, smoking, some looking over at us. I stare back at them, feeling the glint of something within me, something hard and merciless, something that wants to strike out and retaliate.

They have less to lose, less to fight for. It makes a difference, I’ve found.

“Got a job later, Finn is picking me up at 11:00 p.m. Need you to cover for me with Dad,” I say as we’re ambling back to the boat.

“What sort of job is it that starts at 11:00 p.m.?” Jay looks dubious.

I shrug.

“What am I supposed to say to Dad if he asks where you are?”

“Tell him I’ve gone for a late-night swim or something.”

At 10:50 p.m., with Jay giving me a boost, I climb out of the skylight in our cabin and onto the deck. Carrying my shoes in my hand, I try not to make a single sound as I step across the deck and climb up the ladder onto the towpath. Luckily, Dad’s radio is on loud in the cabin below, some psychedelic rock song that will probably go on for hours, and it drowns out any sounds I do make.

I slip my shoes on and run towards the road, thinking I’m early and I’ll have a few minutes to collect myself and wonder where we’re going, but Finn is already there, waiting in a white transit van with Chase and Logan. The van looks new and gleams cleanly and brightly—not one of Bosco’s.

I get in the back. It’s empty apart from a hefty toolbox, a blanket, a tarpaulin, and some rope. I sit on the wheel arch and hold on tightly as the van speeds off into the night.

“S
IT
UP
here, and if you see anyone coming, sound the horn, alright?” Finn points to the center of the steering wheel in front of me. “Long and loud, okay?”

The transit is parked up in some cutting away from the road. Whispery trees loom up in the dark around us. It’s not a cool night, but still I shiver.

Chase and Logan are gone already, walked off into the trees, farther away from the road. I don’t know what we’re doing here, and right now I’m too afraid to ask.

“You okay, Chris?” Finn looks at me, frowning. I’ve noticed he’s much kinder and sweeter to me when no one else is around.

I try a smile. I don’t think it works too well.

Reaching under the passenger seat next to me, Finn brings out a rusted crowbar and lays it across my lap.

“You’ll be okay. We’ll only be about fifteen minutes. Anyone comes, you just sound the horn and I’ll be here in ten seconds, okay?”

He seems concerned about me, so I nod.

After furtively looking round into the darkness behind, Finn leans in and kisses me quick and light. I’m quite unprepared. He grins at my expression, never losing eye contact and remaining close. Close enough to gently cup the back of my head with his hand and tilt it ever so slightly, brushing his lips against mine and pulling away until I groan with frustration at the almostness of it. Like setting light to touchpaper, my desire flares with want. And when he at last fully opens his mouth against mine, I grip the front of his top and draw him in, closer, closer.

This is nothing like the other day.

I think he realizes.

When we break apart, he looks a little bemused.

“I’ve gotta go help.” He swallows, not moving. “Fuck….” He trails off. His eyes drop to my crotch and the obvious swell in the fabric, noticeable even in this poor light. Uncertainly I reach for his hand, touching his fingers and bringing them to my thigh.

Distantly someone calls his name.

“I gotta….”

He turns towards the trees and then back to me. He doesn’t look like he’s thinking too clearly, or at all.

I smile wryly as he wanders off, still half turned-on but now much more relaxed as well. I think about how he looked at me, how much he wanted me, but also, how he has no idea what I want.

It’s thirty minutes later when I hear the three of them crashing through the undergrowth. The crowbar has grown slippery in my sweat-soaked hands, but I grip it tighter and tighter until I know it’s definitely them.

They’ve taken so long, fear has me brittle as glass.

Finn leads the way, hefting a heavy coil of what looks like wire over his shoulder. The other two follow with the tools and ropes.