Darnton The Rules

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-78895-291-0
Verlag: Little Tiger Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 304 Seiten

A gripping thriller from WATERSTONES CHILDREN'S BOOK PRIZE-SHORTLISTED Tracy Darnton, author of THE TRUTH ABOUT LIES. Amber's an expert when it comes to staying hidden - she's been trained her whole life for it. But what happens when the person you're hiding from taught you everything you know? When a letter from her dad arrives, Amber knows she's got to move - and fast. He's managed to find her and she knows he'll stop at nothing to draw her back into the extreme survivalist way of life he believes in. All of a sudden the Rules she's spent so long trying to escape are the ones keeping her safe. But for how long? Praise for THE TRUTH ABOUT LIES: 'Thought-provoking and crisply written' - Guardian Perfect for fans of Karen McManus, E. Lockhart and A GOOD GIRL'S GUIDE TO MURDER.

Tracy Darnton is the author of Waterstones Children's Book Prize-shortlisted THE TRUTH ABOUT LIES. Having previously worked as a solicitor, Tracy graduated with Distinction from the Bath Spa MA Writing for Young People in 2016. She won the Stripes YA Short Story Prize, run in partnership with The Bookseller's YA Book Prize. Tracy lives in Bath with her husband and two sons.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Darnton, Tracy

Leseproben

It’s hard to imagine, but the Bowling Plaza is even worse than usual tonight. A giant, bobbing inflatable snowman is tethered to the roof, casting menacing shadows over the car park. Inside they’ve strung up cheap tinsel and ‘Season’s Greetings’ banners, and a plastic tree with red and green baubles sits on the reception desk, getting in the way. It’s only the first day of December, but already there’s a sickly smell of stale mulled wine and a drunken office party is messing about by the pool tables.

Spotty Paul on shoe duty is dressed as an elf. You’d think he’d have more respect for himself. I don’t like doing anything where you have to wear communal shoes. I’ve had enough of hand-me-down crap. Paul sprays them with a sickly aerosol between each customer, but even so, it freaks me out. I shudder as I put them on. This interests Julie and she makes a note in her stripey book as usual.

“Maybe it’s due to my feelings of abandonment,” I tell her helpfully so she has something else to write down. “Or maybe it’s because I dislike other people’s smelly feet – which is completely rational, by the way.”

Can you believe social services still has a budget for bowling and ice cream with Julie? The free ice cream would be OK if I was, like, six years old and on a beach. I’d rather have a double-shot Americano. I don’t want a machine coffee in a plastic cup, so I stare for a while at the ice-cream choices to build the suspense before saying, “Nothing, thanks.”

Julie looks disappointed. Maybe because she is now a grown woman licking a Solero next to a teenage girl sipping at a cup of water. I tell Julie she should cut back on the ice creams. If she takes all her clients out like this, no wonder.

“No wonder, Julie,” I say, tutting.

Julie reddens and makes another note. Does she ever just call it as it is or does she always have some mumbo-jumbo excuse for my behaviour? “So who’s drawn the short straw this year?” I ask.

“We’re having a little trouble getting the right placement for you after term finishes,” says Julie, fidgeting. This is Julie-speak for ‘nobody wants you’.

“How will Santa know where to find me?” I stare, wide-eyed. I see her processing whether I’m serious or not. She just doesn’t get irony.

To be honest, I see the Christmas stuff happening around me like a trailer for a film I don’t get to watch in full; like those adverts on TV where one big happy family sits down at a glittering table with a shiny turkey. It’s not my world. I’m like the Ghost of Christmas No One Wants in a foster home. They have to pretend to like me and cover up the fact their own child gets piles of gifts from relatives who actually give a damn.

“So no room at the inn,” I say, and laugh. “That reminds me of something.”

“It’ll be fine.” Julie pats my hand. I shrug her off.

“Tell them it’s only dogs who aren’t just for Christmas – you can get rid of kids, no problem,” I say. “Anyway, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s just a day when the shops are shut and the telly’s better.”

Julie’s Solero is dripping down her hand. I watch as the drip plops on to her lap.

“Can’t I stay at Beechwood by myself?” I already know the answer.

The office party’s getting rowdier, singing along to piped Christmas singles from last century. Paul the elf has to intervene.

I start bowling with Julie. “The sooner we begin, the sooner it’s over,” I say.

We take the furthest alley as usual, like an old married couple picking their regular table at the pizzeria.

I watch as she bowls. The ball trickles down the polished lane, heading slowly for the gutter at the side. She looks surprised. I don’t know why. She’s always rubbish at this. I used to think she was letting me win and hate her for it, as if my winning a game of ten-pin bowling would make everything all right in Julie-world. She keeps asking me if I’m OK, if I’m having a good time. Please! In this place? She’s poking in her bag and casting glances my way like she’s got more to tell me. I know the signs.

I win the game, by the way. I always win at things that don’t matter.

“I have some news,” says Julie, when we stop for her to take a rest and guzzle a fizzy drink.

Finally. What now?

“We’ve had a letter for you. From your dad. How do you feel about that?” She is obsessed, literally obsessed, with how I feel about everything. “We’ve struggled to find him, as you know. There was some confusion over names and information.” She rummages in her briefcase and hands me an envelope. It sits in my hand like an unexploded bomb.

“If you don’t want to look at it today, we can save it for another time. This must all be a big surprise,” says Julie. She pats my knee. “Turns out he was back in America.” She says it like that’s an achievement – like he’s a film star rather than a waster.

STRIKE! The teenagers on the alley next to us are doing a moonwalk as the scoring machine flashes and plays loud music.

What am I doing in this place?

I look carefully at the envelope addressed to Somerset Social Services. The idiots looking for him must have told him where I’ve ended up. I flip it over. The return address is a place in Florida.

Julie checks her watch. Her concern for me only lasts until eight o’clock. She has to get back to her real life. She fiddles with her wedding ring.

I breathe. I listen to the clatter of the bowling balls and the whoops of another strike.

“OK,” I say. “I’ll read it.”

I remove the letter from the envelope with my fingertips as if it’s hot. It’s oh-so-carefully typed, but I’m not fooled by him.

F.A.O. Amber Fitzpatrick

Dear Amber,

I can’t tell you how pleased I was to finally have news of you. I’m sorry for your loss. I can only imagine what you’ve been through. But you don’t need to worry about anything now – I’m here for you.

Your mom made it pretty difficult after we split up, but I never stopped looking for the pair of you. You know I’d never give up. I went to your old addresses, but you’d moved on every time. You always were a hard girl to pin down, Amber. I can’t wait to see what a beautiful young woman you’ve grown into.

I look forward to rekindling that special bond between us.

Your loving father

“Short but sweet,” says Julie. “He’s been looking for you all this time.”

There’s nothing sweet about my father, but then she’s never met him. She knows nothing real about him. About him and me. I promised Mum in one of her lucid episodes that I’d never tell anyone what he used to do to her … to me. He damaged her forever as sure as if he’d poured the alcohol and the pills down her throat himself. Some secrets are safer kept – especially when your dad’s not the forgiving type.

It dawns on me that Julie’s probably thinking Dad’s the Christmas miracle, appearing to solve all her problems with placing me. She’s seeing a happy reunion in Julie la-la land. But that’s the last thing I want. And now he’s found me, I know there’s no way Julie can keep me safe. Not from him. I can’t rely on anybody but me.

“So how do you feel about your dad getting back in touch?”

Feelings again. Always feelings.

She checks her notebook. “It’s been a while since you’ve seen him. We had a lucky break in tracking him down at last.”

Lucky? He’s always landed on his feet. Like a cat with nine lives. After all Mum’s efforts with fake names and addresses to make sure the do-gooders couldn’t find him, even when she was in hospital and I was playing foster-care roulette.

“Would you like to write back?”

“No need,” I say.

“You may feel that now,” starts Julie, “but let’s talk about it again when you’ve thought some more. Maybe chat it through with Dr Meadows. It’s a lot to take in, sweetie.”

And as usual she’s got the wrong end of the stick. She hasn’t actually read the letter properly. She doesn’t know how my father operates – but I do. Ten days have passed since the posting date. He’ll be on his way...