He has a rhythm going, a rocking version of a side-step that almost makes a game of counting the metres. A couple of cars have gone past, and he must have looked seriously weird to the drivers and passengers, but that doesn’t bother Caleb. People don’t tend to approach him anyway. They know they won’t get much in return.
One hundred and five, one hundred and eight, one hundred…and the count stops. The girl is opposite him, staring at him through the railings.
‘You planning on decorating?’ she asks, and the next breath he catches is the wrong one, hitches raggedly in his pipes, so instead of answering her, Caleb gapes.
He was right. He’s not equipped to deal with this. And she’s staring at him. She isn’t filling the silence. She’s letting it stretch out, pull itself thin, until it threatens to snap loudly. He has to say something. She’s got to speak, surely? But she’s not. She’s waiting and waiting for him to speak. Oh God, this is worse than he ever imagined it being! Why won’t anything happen? It’s not the silence that’s stretched and snapped, it’s the universe, and it’s done it at this hideous point, and this is all he will feel, this savage burn in his face, and it will never end because Time just broke along with all of everything. Burning up under the gaze of polished green eyes. What had she said to him? Something about decorating? His head’s all scrambled eggs. That doesn’t mean anything. Answer her! ‘No, I’m not decorating.’
Cale’s own coolness amazes him. It is amazing that the ground doesn’t freeze beneath his feet.
‘Okay,’ says Misha, dragging the word out for longer than is necessary. ‘So you’ve got plenty to say for yourself.’
If Caleb had ever bothered to imagine how this first conversation would play out, this would not have been one of the outcomes. He shrugs. She tilts her head forward. Only the slightest of tilts, but there’s something about it that asks, ‘Well?’ Words are required. ‘I’m busy,’ he says, using Father’s tone, the one that says no interruptions will be tolerated.
Her dress is a mass of red pleats that swish as she takes two steps forward. ‘I know you’re busy not decorating. So what are you measuring up for?’
He means to say, ‘School project’. That’s why he invented the cover story: to use it. Instead he says, ‘What do you care?’
‘I live here.’ It comes out like a challenge, and doesn’t it look like she’s egging him on?
‘And I’m not doing any harm.’
‘You’re always around here, Caleb.’
Her use of his name is like an electro bolt down his veins. She uses it softly, despite the hard consonants. ‘Look, you’ve made me lose count. I’ve got to start again.’
‘So start again.’ Swish, swish, and she is up at the railings, and she’s very close for a girl who’s always watched him from a distance. ‘I could help you keep count.’
‘But you don’t even know what for.’
She pushes a scrunch of hair from her vision. ‘You’re going to tell me what for.’ She turns and heads towards the gates. She’s coming out. The quick swish of her ruffles. The lively bounce of her hair.
Caleb knows it would be rude to run away, but that definitely isn’t what stops him. He has a measurement to finish. He’s done one side, and needs to get this one done too, otherwise it’s time wasted and he’ll only have half a piece of evidence. But what’s he meant to tell the girl from the graveyard? Because it’s clear she’s not going to shut up and leave him alone.
He could tell her to get stuffed. Simple. He could tell her
that Vic Sweet plus two are metres away and locked in on her.
Too late.
She steps out onto the pavement and Vic catches her by the elbow-crook and spins her a half-turn backwards, spins hard. The railings clang as she bounces off them. Vic pins her upright before she drops, pushes his sneer close to her face. His two buddies stand at either shoulder, going into shield-mode automatically. The buddies laugh like they can’t believe their luck, but Vic says nothing. It looks like he’s squeezing her shoulders.
They’re not big lads. But Vic has a reputation. And the three combined are bigger than Caleb.
He didn’t ask her to come over.
Vic pulls back a fist. He’s going to punch her in the face. A girl, in the face.
Caleb’s voice is trapped at the bottom of his throat.
The fist powers forward. It unfurls at the last instant, palm slapping into the railing by Misha’s ear. She flinches, couldn’t stop herself. The metallic shrill of the blow resonates down the road and up the hill and deep into the graveyard.
The echo stretches.
Vic’s laugh is a harsh hyena-bark. The other two copy the vicious noise and high-five each other.
Caleb’s heart thunders so hard he might be sick.
‘I’d love to smash your face in, ghoul,’ sneers Vic. Then he leans in, whispers something Caleb can’t hear, and it must be pure poison instead of mere words, because Misha pulls as far away from him as she can.
Why does he have to be here watching this? Why didn’t he wait until it rained before he came out?
He’s not the right boy for this place and time.
And great, now Vic’s looking directly at him. This is what it’s like under the bridge, in the shadows, with the troll. ‘You want to knock me out? You want to save the little ghoul? Come on over. Come on and take a shot.’
Silence. Even the clouds have gathered to watch.
Vic lets Misha go at last. At long, long last. ‘You’ve got nothing, have you? No balls. Didn’t think so. You just keep on looking; it’s all you’re good for.’ More hyena laughs. ‘You want to watch what we do to her next time? It’ll make your eyes bleed.’ There’s a desperation to the laughter now, a need to be heard enjoying the joke louder than the other boy. Vic starts walking, the other two fall in behind him. Caleb’s in their path. He steps to one side. The wrong side. Dipping a shoulder, Vic alters his course to bump solidly into Caleb. It’s Caleb’s turn to slam into the railings. ‘Out the way, hard man,’ growls Vic, and the trio bark and snark as they bundle away from the graveyard.
Caleb closes his eyes, wishing his blazing cheeks would cool, telling himself to breathe normally. The first rain-flecks hit his face. He’s sure they hiss and steam on contact. It’s not only the rain he feels on his skin. It’s her eyes. The accusation. The expectation of an explanation. He’ll have to say something.
Something. There must be something.
Why should there be something? None of this is his fault. He hasn’t done anything.
He hasn’t.
He can’t look at her, and he’s got to see, so he looks.
Misha is already back within the graveyard boundaries, away up the hill, swish, swish, swish. She’s gone, and Caleb’s on his own again.
It was a short but unpleasant interruption that’s over now, that’s all. Just a little blip.
He heads back to the beginning of this stretch of railing, and starts measuring again, counting the numbers loud in his head, loud and clear. The rhythm has gone.