Tyme's End Read Online Free Page B
Author: B. R. Collins
water evaporating off the lawn. Every so often thereâs the swish of a car from the road, or the roar of a motorbike. Once thereâs a motorbike that cuts out, abruptly, at the loudest point. I stand still and listen to the silence, but the noise starts again after a few minutes and chugs away into the distance.
I yawn. Suddenly I feel sleepy.
The front door clicks, softly. If it had been a bit louder, I wouldnât have noticed it.
Oliver.
I wait for the footsteps to come up the stairs, but they donât. He must have been going out . I put my bedside light on and check my watch: just gone midnight. Where . . . ?
The warm breeze makes my curtains billow and dance, smelling of summer rain and darkness. One of the sheets of paper on my bed twitches. Outside thereâs silence, nothing but empty streets and gardens.
But I think I know where heâs going.
I cram my feet into my shoes without untying the laces and check my keys are still in my jeans pocket. Then Iâm running down the stairs, keeping close to the wall so the floorboards donât creak. I go out into the street and shut the door behind me.
Iâm almost too late. Heâs just disappearing out of sight, turning left at the end of the street. I follow, dodging in and out of the pools of light from the street lamps, but heâs looking down at the ground and doesnât glance up, even when he comes to the turning towards the High Street. He goes right, past Eddieâs closed-up shop, the way I went this afternoon. He stops in front of the gates to Tymeâs End, and I slip sideways into the porch of the Cloven Hoof in case he turns round. A car goes past, but once itâs gone the world seems quieter than ever, like weâre underwater. He stands there, his hands in his pockets, just watching. If it wasnât the middle of the night heâd look like a tourist, or a casual passer-by, pausing for a few desultory moments to read the TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED sign, wondering who owns Tymeâs End these days.
He crosses the road slowly, as if he doesnât care if he gets runs over, and goes right up to the gates. He reaches out and touches the padlock, shakes it a little, so it chinks on its chain. Itâs like heâs checking how securely itâs locked. Then he leans forward and rests his forehead against the bars.
He stays there for so long my heart stops thumping and my breathing goes back to normal. I take a few steps forward, so that if he looked round heâd see me, but he doesnât move. I keep going until thereâs only the width of the road between us.
Heâs mostly in the shadows, and his clothes and hair are dark, so itâs as if heâs blurred at the edges. His hands and neck are very pale. I can see the shape of his back through his jumper, the breadth of his shoulders.
I open my mouth because I want to say something, but I canât manage to speak. I feel strange, like Iâm not quite real. Iâm scared that if I called out to him he wouldnât hear me.
More than anything in the world I want to go up behind him and touch the bare nape of his neck, where his jumper dips. I donât know why. I want him to turn and see me and â
Somehow I know heâs going to turn round a split second before he does.
He frowns. For a moment we stare at each other, silently. Then we both speak at exactly the same time.
I say, âI wasnât following you. I just wanted to say I was sorââ
He says, âLeave me alone. Go away. Go away .â
.
I run home without looking back. I stumble through the front door and slam it. I nearly bolt it behind me, so he has to stay outside all night. Heâs got Tymeâs End, after all; he can stay there, with the rats and wasps and my emergency whisky and Coke. But I have just enough self-control not to do it. I pound up the stairs to my room, not caring if I wake Sam up, and slam that door behind me
I yawn. Suddenly I feel sleepy.
The front door clicks, softly. If it had been a bit louder, I wouldnât have noticed it.
Oliver.
I wait for the footsteps to come up the stairs, but they donât. He must have been going out . I put my bedside light on and check my watch: just gone midnight. Where . . . ?
The warm breeze makes my curtains billow and dance, smelling of summer rain and darkness. One of the sheets of paper on my bed twitches. Outside thereâs silence, nothing but empty streets and gardens.
But I think I know where heâs going.
I cram my feet into my shoes without untying the laces and check my keys are still in my jeans pocket. Then Iâm running down the stairs, keeping close to the wall so the floorboards donât creak. I go out into the street and shut the door behind me.
Iâm almost too late. Heâs just disappearing out of sight, turning left at the end of the street. I follow, dodging in and out of the pools of light from the street lamps, but heâs looking down at the ground and doesnât glance up, even when he comes to the turning towards the High Street. He goes right, past Eddieâs closed-up shop, the way I went this afternoon. He stops in front of the gates to Tymeâs End, and I slip sideways into the porch of the Cloven Hoof in case he turns round. A car goes past, but once itâs gone the world seems quieter than ever, like weâre underwater. He stands there, his hands in his pockets, just watching. If it wasnât the middle of the night heâd look like a tourist, or a casual passer-by, pausing for a few desultory moments to read the TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED sign, wondering who owns Tymeâs End these days.
He crosses the road slowly, as if he doesnât care if he gets runs over, and goes right up to the gates. He reaches out and touches the padlock, shakes it a little, so it chinks on its chain. Itâs like heâs checking how securely itâs locked. Then he leans forward and rests his forehead against the bars.
He stays there for so long my heart stops thumping and my breathing goes back to normal. I take a few steps forward, so that if he looked round heâd see me, but he doesnât move. I keep going until thereâs only the width of the road between us.
Heâs mostly in the shadows, and his clothes and hair are dark, so itâs as if heâs blurred at the edges. His hands and neck are very pale. I can see the shape of his back through his jumper, the breadth of his shoulders.
I open my mouth because I want to say something, but I canât manage to speak. I feel strange, like Iâm not quite real. Iâm scared that if I called out to him he wouldnât hear me.
More than anything in the world I want to go up behind him and touch the bare nape of his neck, where his jumper dips. I donât know why. I want him to turn and see me and â
Somehow I know heâs going to turn round a split second before he does.
He frowns. For a moment we stare at each other, silently. Then we both speak at exactly the same time.
I say, âI wasnât following you. I just wanted to say I was sorââ
He says, âLeave me alone. Go away. Go away .â
.
I run home without looking back. I stumble through the front door and slam it. I nearly bolt it behind me, so he has to stay outside all night. Heâs got Tymeâs End, after all; he can stay there, with the rats and wasps and my emergency whisky and Coke. But I have just enough self-control not to do it. I pound up the stairs to my room, not caring if I wake Sam up, and slam that door behind me
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