Graveyard Shift by Chris Westwood Read Free Book Online Page A

come back here. Then again, if they were lost, how would they know where to go?
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    Mum was still at work when I got home. In the kitchen was a note she’d left in a shaky hand reminding me not to eat too much; she’d treat us to more takeout tonight. I poured a glassof milk and drank it on the balcony, watching workmen at a house they were refurbishing across the street. From there I could see barbecue smoke drifting above the park, and a handful of urban ravens above that.
    Up in my room, I tried to sketch the two children from memory. They were still fixed clearly in my head, and I caught their likenesses much better than I had Mr. October’s. At first their eyes came out too dark, so I softened them by dabbing away with a small round of Blu-Tack. Soon I was staring into the same sleepy gazes I’d seen in the classroom.
    But I found I couldn’t do the man at all. His injuries were so severe, there weren’t many features to draw. What I didn’t understand was what he’d been doing there, what connection he had to the children.
    Maybe he’d been in one of the other apartments and they hadn’t found out about him yet. Or maybe he’d been in another fire at another time.
    Born helper . That’s what Mr. October had called me. And now I was being asked for help and I didn’t know where to begin.
    Help how? I thought. Help who?
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    Days two, three, and four at Mercy Road weren’t much of an improvement. The word about me had spread, and it wasn’t only 8C who kept their distance now, watching me for signs of another meltdown. Kids from other years gave me a wide berth in the yard and corridors. Teachers spoke to me inhushed tones, the way you might speak to an elderly relative at the funny farm.
    They all treated me with respect — the kind of respect that comes out of fear.
    All of them except Raymond Blight, who didn’t care either way.
    â€œWeirdo,” he whispered behind me during algebra on Tuesday morning. “Crybaby. Space cadet.”
    At lunchtimes I went to the crypt across the street. No one else from school went there, so it seemed the best place to avoid them. Midmorning and afternoon breaks I spent in the library. I went back there each day after school, killing time until I could be sure the other students had left.
    Sometimes when other kids see you as different, especially when that difference makes them afraid, they tend to pull together against you. They keep you outside. Sometimes they even attack.
    No one had attacked me yet, except Raymond, and he’d only done it with words. It was only a matter of time, though, I thought, before things got worse.
    I couldn’t talk to Mum about it, couldn’t tell her truthfully how things were at school or about the fire children or anything else, just as she couldn’t talk to me about Dad.
    On Thursday night we ate supper in silence and watched an hour of TV. Afterward I lay awake in bed till the early hours, unable to settle, dreading the first light of Friday.
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    Three things happened that Friday. Three things that turned the week around, that in the end turned my whole life around.
    The first involved Becky Sanborne from the gang of six; the second, Mr. October, just when I’d given up any hope of seeing him again; the third, a red-haired woman in a green dress throwing a tantrum on a street corner in Soho.
    I would never be any kind of hero, not in 8C or anywhere else, but by the end of day five at least I wasn’t a zero anymore. And I’d begun to understand what my true calling was.
    The art room at Mercy Road was upstairs and faced due south, so the lighting there was the best in school. At the start of last period, Mr. Redfern explained the day’s assignment. He would divide the class into pairs, with each pair sketching a portrait of their partner using pencil, Conté crayon, or any other drawing medium of their choice.
    Then he moved around the