On Saturday Simon drives Mum and me to Wootton. ‘You should see the palace,’ he says. ‘We can call it a history lesson.’ Big wink. His leather gloves make a swooshing noise as he feeds the steering wheel round.
But when we get there, Mum wants to go round the shops. ‘I can’t stand all that history,’ she says. ‘Dead things in cases.’ She would never have admitted this a few months ago, when he first moved in with his leather-bound Reader’s Digest Complete History of the World collection.
Simon opens his mouth, but before he can start, I say, ‘We can still go. I like palaces and stuff.’
So he drops Mum off in the High Street, where I know she won’t buy anything because it’s all too expensive, and we roar off down the palace drive.
The sky’s bright blue and the house is surrounded by hills that Simon tells me are man-made, put there especially to show off the building. ‘That’s the wrong way round,’ I point out.
It’s so cold my lipstick goes hard and cracked within a minute of getting out of the car.
‘Are you going to buy me a souvenir?’
‘We haven’t even been round the grounds yet,’ says Simon. He’s wearing a new checked woolly scarf that Mum bought him. I can tell he doesn’t like it because he’s tucked it right inside his mac.
‘We could skip it. Go straight to the gift shop. You should at least buy me some chocolate, now we’re here.’
He flicks his stiffened fringe, gives me a look. Every morning I hear the long squirt of his hairspray. The laundry-fresh stench is still in the bathroom when I go to flannel my face. When he moved in, he promised us a shower. Shiny taps. Blasts of hot on demand. I was looking forward to soaping myself all over in the steam, arse pressed up against the wet glass. But no shower has ever appeared.
‘What’s your favourite?’ he asks. ‘For future reference.’
‘Bourneville.’
For some reason, he looks pleased. ‘The dark one. Good choice.’
We walk on in silence. Sheep shit is everywhere; dry balls and wet clumps of it splattered over the path and the grass. Some of it’s shaped like it’s been piped on a cake.
‘Want to know what mine is?’
‘What?’
‘Favourite.’
‘Let me guess,’ I say. ‘Yorkie?’
‘No. Too big.’
‘Turkish Delight?’
‘Too soft.’
In the distance, the big lake in front of the house reflects the white clouds and the sand-coloured house.
‘This place is like a chocolate box,’ I say. ‘I like it.’
‘I’m glad. But you haven’t guessed yet.’
‘Bounty.’
He considers. ‘The taste of paradise. Nice. But not my favourite.’
I look at him and laugh, and then I step in a rounded knob of sheep shit. ‘Look what you made me do.’
‘You should stop dreaming about chocolate and watch where you’re going.’
I lift my foot and flick the shit at Simon’s trouser leg.
‘Oi!’ He hops to the side.
I let out a yelp and start running towards the lake, but not so fast that he can’t chase me.
‘What are you doing with that boy?’ he asks when he’s caught up with me on the bridge. His face is flushed and shiny from running. I can see every pore on his chin. He pushes his specs back up his nose. Then he undoes his mac and rests his thumbs in his belt loops.
‘What boy?’ I lick the sweat from my upper lip and get the margarine taste of lipstick.
‘The one your mum says is backward.’
I lean against the wall of the bridge and puff out into the frozen air. My breath hangs there.
‘Joanna?’
‘What?’
‘Are you going to answer me?’
I turn away from him and look out over the lake. The clouds are going grey and stringy.
‘Joanna?’
‘Do you think he’s backward?’
‘I was asking you a question, but since you’ve asked, I’ll tell you. I think he’s – different. Damaged, certainly. Remedial, maybe. In need of professional help.’
I turn round. Behind Simon, the big house is glowing, its iron gates twisted, too high to climb over.
‘Everyone says that. But I don’t think they know what it means.’
He gives a little ‘huh’, like a TV journalist who thinks the answer’s all too obvious. ‘You know what it means, Joanna.’
‘I don’t.’
‘It means not all there. Not quite the ticket. Not the full quid. No one’s blaming him, but the boy’s not right, is he? Wasn’t he in some car accident? A bump on the head could have done it. Brain damage. They didn’t look into that sort of thing when he was young. Not properly.’
‘A bump on the head?’ I start to laugh. ‘It sounds like a cartoon.’
He shakes his head and sighs. ‘To be honest, I think it’s a shame,’ he says, in a quieter voice.
‘What is?’
The sun’s going down and his face is partly in shadow.
‘What is?’ I repeat.
‘I think it’s a shame that he’s like that. I think the whole thing’s a shame. It’s a shame for you.’
Then he grabs me by the elbow and yanks me over to him. He clamps both his arms around me and holds me so close that I see all the fine lines on his cheeks. ‘Poor Joanna,’ he whispers. I don’t pull away but I hold my back stiff, keep my arms by my sides. ‘Have you heard anything from your dad?’ he asks.
I pull away from him and walk to the other side of the bridge. If Dad was here, we’d be in the gift shop. If Dad was here, we wouldn’t be here at all.
After a while Simon comes over and coughs in a fake way. ‘We’re supposed to be talking about history. Did you know that guy was just given this house? For winning a battle?’
‘Winning a battle’s a big thing.’
‘Not for his type. His type win battles by leading poorer men to their deaths. Stepping on people’s heads to get what they want. They’re bullies. Taking advantage of people like you, Joanna.’
‘And people like Shane.’
‘Isn’t Shane the bully?’
I laugh at that, but Simon looks serious. ‘You should be careful, Joanna. If your father was here, he’d tell you.’
‘What do you know about my dad?’
He stares at me.
‘Dad likes Shane, anyway.’
Before I can back away, he’s got an arm round my shoulder. The metal of my earring clicks against his watch. ‘Anyway,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after you. If you’ll let me.’ His cold fingers are on my neck.
I snort. But I let his fingers work their way up into my hair.
‘What will I do if you’re not here?’
‘Then you’ll have to look after yourself.’
‘I can look after myself already.’
‘Can you?’ His breath is on my scalp.
‘Mum will be wondering where we are.’ I shrug his arm off my shoulder and walk back across the bridge. My legs are shaky, but each step I take is deliberate, and I don’t get any shit on my shoes.