It was a Wednesday in the middle of the summer holidays when I decided to go and see Jon. He had stopped visiting us. He’d been strange for a few days, even twitchier than usual. He’d spoken less and stayed for a shorter amount of time. Even my dad had noticed. ‘Do you think Jon is all right?’ he asked. I shrugged, ‘It’s hard to tell.’ He nodded and went to his workroom. I did miss him though. The days dragged without his chatter. He broke the static and silence.
I was bored and a bit concerned. But mainly bored. And starting to get jumpy about school. It wasn’t too far off now and I needed to occupy myself. If Jon could just turn up here first thing every morning without an invite, surely I could visit him. He lived in the next house down the fell and I could just about see it through the trees from my bedroom window. It wouldn’t take long.
It did take long. I fell in a stream, I got stung by nettles and I ripped my trousers and skin on a rusty old nail as I climbed over a fence. And it was as hot as hell. I sweated into every corner of my clothes and my throat was as dry as the Atacama Desert, which is in Chile and, Jon told me, is the driest desert in the world. And when I rounded the final corner it looked like it had been a waste of time. The house standing in front of me looked like a ruin. Even compared to our ruin. The windows were cracked and loose and covered by yellowing newspapers on the inside and the roof looked about ready to avalanche its way into the front garden. I would have to fight through the undergrowth to get to the front door and there were tractor tyres and rusty engine parts scattered everywhere, like traps set to snap at ankles. Nobody lived here surely? I was about to turn away and reluctantly push my way back up the hill when I noticed the smoke, slowly spiralling out of the shaky-looking chimney. Somebody had a fire going on a hot morning in August. Somebody was home.