Darkside by Belinda Bauer Read Free Book Online Page A

his gratuity seriously and, on the occasions when Lucy failed to answer his knock, he would wait and knock again, or go round and check the garden. He never left without finding her, and once had called Jonas to tell him his wife was crying upstairs, and then waited for nearly an hour on the chilly doorstep for him to come home.
    Now Steven would come in and say, 'I brought your paper, Mrs Holly,' then Lucy would ask him to sit down for five minutes and he would do that - always on the most uncomfortable chair in the room - and he would face the TV and watch with her whatever was on. Sometimes it was Countdown , sometimes it was one of those shows about buying houses or selling antiques, mostly it was a horror movie and they would flinch together in companionable silence. Lucy no longer minded that Steven saw her using her tasselled cushion for protection, and she never mentioned that she often saw him gently shut his eyes in moments of extreme tension.
    Steven had eyes that often looked distant, as if something was troubling him. She imagined it must be his homework or girls, but she never asked. She was afraid that if she did, he would shy away from coming again.
    And Lucy loved having him there.
    She'd been a kindergarten teacher before the disease had taken hold of her, and missed children with a passion - their fresh openness, their honesty and lack of guile. The way they would look to her for comfort, or come in with a joke they'd been saving up for her, give her misshapen lumps of painted clay for her birthday, and the way they didn't mind being babied if they skinned their shins on the jungle gym.
    Over the years Lucy had tried offering Steven a cup of tea or a biscuit, in the hope that he would extend his stay, but he had never accepted. He would get a little frown line between his eyes as if he was really considering it, and then always say the same thing: 'Ummmm ... no thank you.' So she'd stopped asking that and instead now and then asked him about himself. He would answer briefly without turning away from the TV, and with a refreshing indifference to his own ego that made his life so far sound like the most tedious sixteen years in human history. He lived with his mother and grandmother and little brother Davey. They did nothing and went nowhere. School was all right, he supposed. He liked history and he wrote a good letter. Once he'd brought her a bag of carrots he and his Uncle Jude had grown. Another time it was beans. 'I don't like them, but they're fun to grow,' he'd said, watching police frogmen drag a bloated corpse from a river. 'Water destroys all the good evidence,' he'd added sombrely at the screen, making Lucy look away to smile.
    Occasionally, as time wore on, Steven would volunteer something even if she hadn't asked.
    His mother had a new job cleaning at the school and nowwas always there when he got home. He was planting onions, which his nan had promised to pickle. 'Makes my mouth go funny just thinking of them.' It was his friend Lewis's birthday and Steven had bought him a catapult. 'And ammo,' he added mysteriously.
    Lucy was fascinated by it all.
    Now she hit mute on The Antiques Roadshow in the hope that Steven would fill the space with random boy-speak.
    After a few dead-end questions from her, she struck gold when Steven mentioned that his nan had bought slippers at Barnstaple market and then insisted on keeping them even though they were both left feet. 'She looks like she's always going round corners,' he said seriously, and seemed pleasantly surprised when Lucy laughed.
    He turned back to the telly. 'I've seen this one,' he sighed at a woman with an ugly Majolica pot, and stood up. Ten minutes a week - maybe fifteen - was all Steven Lamb ever gave her, but Lucy cherished the time.
    'Bye, Mrs Holly,' he mumbled.
    'Bye, Steven,' she said and listened to the squeak and then the rumble that was him leaving for another week. She thought about his life unfolding - somewhere else away from her -