Different (Blaze Trilogy Book 2) by H.G. Lynch

Author:H.G. Lynch [Lynch, H.G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Vamptasy Publishing
Published: 2016-07-17T23:00:00+00:00

***

** Alistair **

Sometimes, I wondered how I hadn’t made friends with Anson before. He was mental. More mental than some of my other friends, and I was starting to think he might even be more mental than me. I mean, come on, he’d asked me to break into his house and steal his stuff so he could run off with his smokin’ girlfriend. The guy was off his rocker.

It just goes to show: It’s always the quiet one. I snickered at the thought as I hopped the back wall into the garden behind his house. I glanced around to make sure I hadn’t been spotted. The garden was small and rough and full of weeds among the brightly-coloured flowers. Very quaint and exactly what I’d expected Anson’s back garden to look like. I’d have been surprised if I’d discovered Anson secretly had a green thumb.

Sneakily, I slunk along the far wall of the garden and pressed up against the back of the house. Peering slyly in the through the window, I found myself looking into a cosy kitchen flooded with warm light. There was a woman, standing by the sink and peeling potatoes, who I assumed to be Anson’s mother. I ducked as she turned to drop a peeled potato into a pan on the stove, and hoped I hadn’t been spotted.

After a few moments, when nobody came running out the back door to yell at me, I slid away from the window and straightened up to eye the drainpipe hugging the wall. It ran right up the roof and spread out along the slates. Little metal cuffs held it firmly to the wall, but I shook it to be sure none of them were loose. Nope, it seemed sturdy enough.

So I hiked my foot onto the first metal cuff, stuffing the toe of my trainer into the irregular gap between the cylindrical pipe and the flat wall. Grasping the cold, slick pipe with both hands, I pulled myself upright, pressing flat against the pipe, balancing my weight on the toe of my right foot. This was the bit I hated: Climbing. I was probably going to lose the skin on the tips of my fingers.

Still, I got my fingers curled around a metal cuff just above my head and pulled myself up until my left foot scrabbled against a cuff about two feet higher than the one my right foot was on. And then I did it again and again, using the metal cuffs like the rungs of a very tricky, awkward ladder, until I reached the upper windows of the house.

I peered in through the window closest to me, clinging to the drainpipe like a friggin’ lizard, and let out a silent sigh of relief as I spotted Anson’s schoolbag on the floor and a familiar notepad sitting on the desk, next to the computer. It was the same notepad he brought to school with him, though I had no idea what he wrote in it. But clearly this was his room.

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