BooksBarbecue
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Chapters (75)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. About the Author
  4. Title Page
  5. Intoroduction
  6. ONE
  7. TWO
  8. THREE
  9. FOUR
  10. FIVE
  11. SIX
  12. SEVEN
  13. EITHT
  14. NINE
  15. TEN
  16. ELEVEN
  17. TWELVE
  18. THIRTEEN
  19. FOURTEEN
  20. FIFTEEN
  21. SIXTEEN
  22. SEVENTEEN
  23. EIGHTEEN
  24. NINETEEN
  25. TWENTY
  26. TWENTY-ONE
  27. TWENTY-TWO
  28. TWENTY-THREE
  29. TWENTY-FOUR
  30. TWENTY-FIVE
  31. TWENTY-SIX
  32. TWENTY-SEVEN
  33. TWENTY-EIGHT
  34. TWENTY-NINE
  35. THIRTY
  36. THIRTY-ONE
  37. THIRTY-TWO
  38. THIRTY-THREE
  39. THIRTY-FOUR
  40. THIRTY-FIVE
  41. THIRTY-SIX
  42. THIRTY-SEVEN
  43. THIRTY-EIGHT
  44. THIRTY-NINE
  45. FORTY
  46. FORTY-ONE
  47. FORTY-TWO
  48. FORTY-THREE
  49. FORTY-FOUR
  50. FORTY-FIVE
  51. FORTY-SIX
  52. FORTY-SEVEN
  53. FORTY-EIGHT
  54. FORTY-NINE
  55. FIFTY
  56. FIFTY-ONE
  57. FIFTY-TWO
  58. FIFTY-THREE
  59. FIFTY-FOUR
  60. FIFTY-FIVE
  61. FIFTY-SIX
  62. FIFTY-SEVEN
  63. FIFTY-EIGHT
  64. FIFTY-NINE
  65. SIXTY
  66. SIXTY-ONE
  67. SIXTY-TWO
  68. SIXTY-THREE
  69. SIXTY-FOUR
  70. SIXTY-FIVE
  71. SIXTY-SIX
  72. SIXTY-SEVEN
  73. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  74. CLIMATE EMERGENCY
  75. Copyright

Before the dull thud of the cyclist’s body striking the red car’s tailgate, before the sound of tinkling glass, before the slow tick of the bike’s still-spinning wheel coming to a stop in the seconds afterwards – before all of these things, there is the worst sound of all: the crack as Jamie’s leg breaks.

FORTY-ONE

FORTY ONE

I imagine car doors opened and people shouted and telephone calls were made.

But I wasn’t there to hear them.

I imagine a crowd of students gathered around the screaming form of Jamie in the road.

But I wasn’t there to see them either.

I was running.

I still am.

As I run, I think I imagine the insistent siren of an ambulance.

But I’m not sure.

None of this feels real anymore. Or maybe it’s the opposite; that everything is suddenly far too real.

*

I get home and up to my bedroom, shutting the door and heading straight to my desk. My laptop. When they come, they might take it away. They might see what’s inside.

Without hesitating, I pick it up and go as fast as I can on shaking legs out into the garden, towards the shed. Inside, I put the laptop on the floor and rummage behind the beer stack for a brick.

I wince at the sound of the heavy brick meeting the laptop’s aluminium shell. But I raise it again, bringing it down hard. The glass smashes and the computer bends up at the edges. Shards of screen and a few keys leak out where the laptop no longer closes properly.

I hit it again. And again. And again.

But what if it’s not enough? What if they can reconstruct what’s here?

Grabbing my bag, I stuff the blistered and crumpled machine inside.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing under the hedge, the wrong side of the locked door. I try to climb the wall again, using the branches of the hedge to help. But I’m panicking. It takes a few attempts to get started, and I take the skin off a few knuckles against the wall. After a few deep breaths I try again and manage it. Then I’m pulling myself onto the top of the wall, looking down at what must be a three-metre drop into the garden.

I go backwards, holding onto the top of the wall and easing myself down until my arms are stretched. It’s still a metre to the floor.

I land in a flowerbed, on the soft soil that Dana and I turned over on Friday.

Only three days ago.