Almost True by Keren David

Author:Keren David
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781907666124
Publisher: MBI
Published: 2010-09-11T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 24

Eggs

I want to run. I’m looking from side to side, panic rising inside me, looking for a way out.

But what if I run and then someone kills my dad?

I crawl under the table, roll up into a ball and think as quickly as I can. My fingers are slimy with egg. It reminds me of . . . OK, let’s not go there right now. . .

I make a list of possibilities:

a) I have gone mad. I am hallucinating again. Any minute now Alistair will appear, juggling eggs and laughing his head off.

b) Someone has broken into the flat and left a death threat for my dad (potential drug dealer) or me. On an egg. In the fridge. Where are they now? What sort of a nutter writes on an egg? How would they even know where to find me?

c) My dad is a sicko headcase and this is his idea of a wind-up. For some reason, this is the scariest thought so far and I pass swiftly on to

d) I am dead. I did actually fall off the balcony and the whole motorcycle thing was me going to heaven . . . except I’m pretty certain I won’t get in there . . . but maybe going to a Catholic school gets you extra points. . . The Death Egg was God’s way of breaking the news. It’s symbolic, like an Easter egg, except not chocolate.

For a moment I’m convinced this must be it, but surely you’d feel something if you died. You’d realise. Wouldn’t you? What did Alistair feel? And Rio? What if they didn’t even know?

Anyway, I think once in church they said something about eggs meaning life, not death. Life. I’m almost certain.

My dad comes back into the kitchen. ‘Ty?’ he says. And then he spots me. He ducks down and I can see his upside-down face pretending that I’m not doing anything weird. ‘Oh. What are you . . . are you all right?’

I look away and he says, ‘Umm . . . shall I just give you a minute?’

His legs walk from the table to the sink and back again. I hear a swoosh as he cleans the eggy mess off the table. He makes himself a coffee. He cuts some bread. Then he puts a plate with bread and cheese and tomatoes under the table, next to me. He doesn’t say anything. I grab some bread and stuff it in my mouth. I’m starving – but it’s rough against the roof of my mouth and I feel vomit rise in my throat.

My dad sits at the table. His legs are right by me. I could reach out and grab them. Obviously I don’t want to.

‘Ty,’ he says, in his soft calm voice. ‘Did something scare you?’

I have a stabbing pain in my throat. I lean my head on my knees.

‘Was it something to do with the smashed egg?’

I can hear a little yelping sound. Maybe he has a puppy. I look around and then I realise that it was me.

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